


The Nightmare Solution

by MdeCarabas



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aro-Spec Character, Asexual Character, M/M, Mental Illness, RvB Big Bang, Sexual Humor, Sexual Situations, Unsafe driving, alternate modern au, discussion of anger issues, discussion of trauma, kids being assholes, mentioned church/tex, mentioned grif/simmons, references to people losing their stuff in a fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: Introducing the Nightmare Solution!Featuring temporary cohabitation, fake exorcisms, copious self-help books, and David Washington slowly losing control of his life.





	

“Dude, are you sure this is gonna be okay?”

Washington’s fingers attempt to twitch into fists entirely of their own volition. It’s the seventh time that he’s been asked that question in the last two hours, and to be perfectly honest, Wash is beginning to run out of nerves for Tucker to get on.

“Hey, don’t give me that look,” Tucker continues with a frown. “I’m not the one who keeps acting like they’re gonna blow their top every time someone even glances at their carefully organized self-help bookshelf.”

Wash opens his mouth—

Tucker shakes his head hard, a sharp, far too jerky motion that immediately silences the biting comment that was about to exit. “C’mon, Wash, I’m just saying, you know? It’s cool that you offered, but we could alway stay at a motel or some shit.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a brief moment, only breaking the connection when Tucker reaches across the table in order to grab at the sugar where it sits nestled between two different boxes of cereal. He fiddles with the bag for a second before pulling the zip back with far more strength than is needed, causing a little bit of sugar to leap over the side. Undeterred, Tucker ignores the mess he’s just made and tips the bag on its side over his coffee, pouring a fair amount into his cup before placing the sugar down again.

Knowing that he can’t exactly chew Tucker out under the circumstances, Washington takes a sip of his own coffee and turns his scowl towards the mess on the table, glowering at the sugar particles with all the irritability he has left in his body.

He could just clean it up himself.

He _could_.

But it’s just a symptom of a greater problem. One in which dishes are still in the sink when he wakes up in the morning, shoes are left kicked in front of the door where anyone could trip over them, and the cap is left off the toothpaste even though it _literally takes three seconds to put it back on when you’re done using it._

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Tucker exclaims, snapping him out of the dark mood that’s coming on.  “You’re sitting here glaring down at the table like you just found out it fucked your girlfriend in the bathroom while you were busy getting into it with the mascot from the Burger Palace.”

Washington pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.

“Happened to a guy I knew,” Tucker lies.

“I’m sure it did,” Washington replies.

Tucker scowls at the blandly-delivered response, but instead of snapping back with an easy insult like usual, he begins stirring the sugar into his coffee with a moody expression on his face. The spoon clinks angrily against the sides, loudly and annoyingly enough that Wash would think Tucker was doing it on purpose if it weren’t for the sullen set of his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes.

With a sigh, Wash puts his own cup down. “I don’t want you to leave,” he tells Tucker finally, watching as Tucker’s shoulders tense abruptly and then relax all at once. “You and Junior are welcome to stay here as long as it takes to get back on your feet.”

Tucker snorts, mouth twisting into something unhappy. “Yeah, you keep saying that,” he points out, “but you’re not exactly acting like you’re okay with having us around.”

And Tucker’s...not completely wrong about that, for more reasons than he knows. Wash has been antsy and prickly ever since they showed up at his door a few days ago, Junior in tears and Tucker only a few angry steps from it himself, both of them shaken from the events that happened the night before.

“I’m just not used to having roommates,” Wash admits, which is quite possibly the most polite thing he could say in this particular situation. “It's taking me some time to adjust to having people in my space.”

“Oh,” Tucker says.

Washington glances at him, then turns his eyes away and focuses on the plain white cup in front of him. “Especially,” he adds, because he can't help himself, “ones who don't clean up after themselves.”

The clink-clink of the spoon hitting the walls of the cup stops as Tucker takes the time to squint at him suspiciously. “Wait. Are you seriously trying to tell me that the reason you've been acting so bitchy lately is because you're freaking out about, like, chore wheels or some shit?”

Wash stays silent.

Tucker stares at him in disbelief.

Washington remains silent. He went through boot camp, has survived dinners with Carolina’s father, lived with a secret love of Britney Spears and early Madonna despite having Donut as a friend; he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

After a moment, Tucker throws his hands up in exasperation. “ _Seriously,_ dude!?” he exclaims. “Why didn't you just bitch us out about it like you do everything else?”

“Because the two of you have been through enough!” Washington snaps back without meaning to. The words are too loud in the quiet of the kitchen and visibly startle Tucker, causing him to jolt back in his seat as if he's been slapped. For a brief moment, something complicated hides behind his eyes, quickly hidden away once he becomes aware that Wash is staring.

“What the fuck?” Tucker says weakly. He mouths the words again, then seems to grow strength from them. “No, really, _what the fuck?_ You can't just—we’re not—what the _fuck,_ Wash?”

Washington takes a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly lets it out through his mouth, repeating it a couple of times exactly the way he'd been taught to do in the anger management classes he'd been required to take as a kid.

“Wash!”

Wash twitches, all his carefully collected calm abruptly thrown out the window with one cry of his name, and with a groan, he leans forward until his forehead thumps against table. Unfortunately, he misses his mark and bangs against his cup of coffee, jarring it enough that the hot liquid spills over the side, causing him to jump back up only seconds after resting there.

Tucker at least has the decency to help clean _that_ up, he thinks ruefully as he presses a pack of peas to the fresh burn on his chin moments later. Tucker looks up as if he could hear Wash thinking about him, eyes still narrowed, but largely missing the anger that was there all too recently. Something about the look has Washington giving in.

“Look, Tucker,” he begins, “I know the past few days have been...stressful.” To say the least. “And I didn't want to add to the stress by making you feel unwelcome in my home.”

“But that's exactly what you're doing anyway!” Tucker blurts out. Washington blinks hard, and Tucker winces, then sends him a brief, yet apologetic look. “Just...like, if you wanna bitch us out ‘cause we’re slobs or whatever, go ahead. But you keep going around acting like you're pissed at us all the time and it's freaking us out!”

“I don’t—”

“Wash. You didn't even talk to us at all during last night’s dinner.”

Washington reels back. No, that's not...sure, he'd been a little annoyed after walking into the bathroom after a long day at work only to see that morning’s towels still spread out over the floor, but…

“And then you ignored me when I asked if you wanted to watch _Die Hard_ with me and Junior and went stomping off to your room instead.”

Because he only had one tv in his house and them watching _Die Hard_ meant he couldn't catch the latest episode of _Cutthroat Kitchen._

“And then—”

Wash holds a hand up. “Okay! Tucker, I...I get it. I've been acting like—”

“Like a bag of dicks?” Tucker offers pointedly.

Washington glares, but Tucker’s expression doesn't change. He stares Wash down like his life is depending on it, stubborn and defiant to the last. “On second thought, maybe the motel is a good idea after all,” Washington says with a scowl.

Bizarrely, the comment makes Tucker burst into laughter, all the residual tension that was in his body from earlier disappearing in one single burst of sound. He slumps back in his chair, looking more relieved than the conversation calls for, and gives Washington that familiar lazy smile.

“Nah, I already called no takebacks, remember?” Tucker replies, grinning all the while. “Besides, I'm pretty sure I don't have the money to pay for more than a couple of days.”

Which is about what Washington figured when he offered to take them in. What little savings Tucker had left in the bank needed to go towards replacing things that were lost in the fire, like a handful of clothes for both he and Junior, along with toothbrushes and other immediately necessary things. A motel would have been a waste of money in every way, especially when Wash had a spare room in his apartment he wasn't using.

Still...

“Next time, you're buying renter’s insurance.”

Tucker scoffs. “Dude, no way. That shit’s a scam! You know, same as renting movies on Amazon or buying anything organic.”

“Tucker, you _just_ lived through a fire.”

“I didn't live through anything! We weren't even home!”

“You know what I mean,” Washington says, unwilling to give up on this even a tiny bit. “I'm more than happy to have you both here” —and here he ignores Tucker’s snort— “but you need something extra to fall back on if something like this happens again.”

Tucker makes a face. “What, you mean if I get another chain-smoking elderly neighbor that falls asleep while doing scrapbooking and accidentally burns the building down?”

Washington is too old and far too tired for this. “...yes,” he says with more patience than he thought he actually had. “Or something slightly more likely, like faulty wiring or a cooking accident.”

“Meh. I _guess_.”

“Tucker…”

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Tucker groans. “Can we get back to the point, already? The one where you stop acting all passive-aggressive and actually tell us what's up so we can stop doing it? ‘Cause you're right, Wash. Junior doesn't need this kind of fucking stress on top of everything else!”

Wash didn't just mean Junior, but he knows better than to say that upfront, especially after Tucker got so irritated by the mere suggestion of it earlier. “Fine,” he says instead. “I'll make a list of chores—”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Uh...I was just joking about the chore wheel—”

Washington continues through gritted teeth. “ _I'll make a list of chores_ and we’ll all go over them together before dinner after we come home from work.” At the look on Tucker’s face, Wash reluctantly adds: “I'll buy pizza. My treat.”

Tucker brightens. “Aw, fuck yeah! Meat Lover's special?”

Wash nods.

“Nice!”

Then, suddenly, in a move that will undoubtedly get Wash another strongly worded letter from the worst neighbor Wash has ever lived next to in his life, Tucker yells loud enough for Junior to hear from where he sits in the living room.

“Hey, Junior! We’re having pizza tonight!”

There's a sudden cheer, followed by an even more sudden _bump-and-crash_ that leaves both Tucker and Washington wincing, and then a five-second-long guilty silence from Junior that has them both sighing instead.

“Umm, Dad? Can I have a paper towel, please!?”

Washington stares at Tucker.

Tucker gets up to go, then stops and furrows his brow, frowning at Washington worriedly. “Hey, are you okay? You look like you're gonna have an aneurysm or something.”

“Dad!”

Wash’s jaw clenches even tighter.

Tucker's eyebrows fly up in alarm. “Uh, yeah,” he says as he wisely backs away, “I'm gonna go…clean that up.” He grabs the paper towels off the counter. “Keep Junior out of trouble. You just relax.”

“Daaaad!”

Tucker flees.

Wash stares at the empty exit and contemplates the ice cold water dripping down his neck, the spilled sugar carelessly left on the table, and the undoubtedly overturned cereal on his living room floor from where Junior was watching tv before school.

Leaving for work never sounded so good.

* * *

 

Thankfully, the color-coded chore wheel he draws up during his lunch break actually seems to help things after that. Junior, despite being only seven, immediately takes to the idea with enthusiasm, which he tells them solemnly is because he's “used to it.”

“Yeah, his class does that stuff too, I guess,” Tucker explains later in the week as they're doing the dishes together. “They all take turns cleaning out the hamster cage and erasing the board and stuff. It's supposed to teach them discipline and how to take care of their things while letting them bond over something. I don't know.”

“Then maybe Kimball and Doyle should adopt a hamster for the workplace,” Washington suggests wryly.

Tucker smirks and knocks their elbows together companionably. “Nah. That’d just start an all-out war between everyone over who isn't pulling their weight and whose boss _really_ bought the hamster, and at the end of the month, the hamster would be swimming in its own shit and everyone would still hate each other.”

“They might not—”

Tucker says nothing, but he does it very mockingly.

“Okay, they definitely would,” Wash admits.

But he supposes that's what happens when two rival companies merge with everyone fully aware of the fact that many of their long-term coworkers/friends got fired to make room for those in the other business. Combine that with some people getting seemingly undeserved promotions and you get an awkward working condition at best and an extremely unpleasant one at worst. Luckily, both Tucker and Wash have job security at Chorus Industries, but things were and are very different for so many people there.

“Dad?”

Wash’s hands slip on the plate he was soaping up. He looks up at the same time Tucker does, both of them peering towards the door and the small, scared voice that just spoke up.

Tucker puts down the dish towel with a frown. “Hey, Junior,” he says carefully. He edges around Washington, placing one hand briefly on the small of his back as he passes by to kneel in front of his son. “What's up? I thought you were reading.”

Junior fidgets, then slowly nods. “Yeah, umm. Can you read with me?” he asks with wide eyes. Washington turns the faucet off absentmindedly, catching the confused look Tucker throws over his shoulder.

“Uh, sure. Just let me—”

“I can finish up here,” Wash confirms.

Tucker sends him a grateful look. “Thanks,” he replies. He rests a hand on Junior’s shoulder and pulls him in, tucking him into his side in a casual way that Wash never shared with his own father. Junior looks grateful for the contact, and the two of them make their way to the guest bedroom to deal with whatever it is that's bothering Junior.

* * *

 

Which is monsters, apparently.

“Monsters?” Washington repeats the next afternoon.

“Shh!” Tucker hisses loudly, waving his hands all over the place as if the combined strength of his so-called whisper and the frantic motion of his hands won't call far more attention to them than Washington’s even-toned question did. “Don't let him know I told you, okay? He's really embarrassed about it.”

“I won't,” Wash promises. “Still...monsters?”

Tucker relaxes back into the park bench, then lets his gaze drift worriedly over to where Junior is playing freeze tag with some kids near the swings. “I know, right? He hasn't been afraid of monsters since he was three.”

“Maybe it's just because he's in a new place…”

“Or maybe he's more messed up because of the fire than we thought,” Tucker snaps back irritably. He shoots Washington a dirty look. “Fuck, Wash, I'm not stupid.” He falters, and a sad expression crosses his face. “He's been having nightmares, but I thought they'd just…”

Tucker goes quiet for far too long, hands clenched tightly at his sides as if he's holding back some strong emotion. Helplessness, knowing him. Tucker never does particularly well when he feels like he doesn't have a plan.

“What did you do when he was younger?”

Tucker blinks, snapping out of it for a brief second. “What, with the monsters?” he asks. Washington nods. “I checked the closets and under the bed and shit and pretended to scare them off.”

“So…”

He gets a shake of the head in return. “Nah,  I don't think that's gonna work this time. I mean, he's not even _calling_ them monsters. He's, like, saying they're ghosts or demons or shit like that. So unless we can get an exorcist up in there...”

Washington rolls his eyes. Then he reconsiders being snide in favor of being judgmental as he reviews what Tucker just said. “Wait. How does he even know what an exorcist is?”

“Oh, please. He saw the movie months ago.”

“...you let a seven-year-old watch _The Exorcist_?”

Tucker shifts on his seat. “What? No! Dude, of course not!” he says, far too indignantly for it to be earnest. “Not _all_ of it. Just the pea soup scene, ‘cause that shit’s hilarious.”

Washington remains unimpressed.

“Hey, he thought it was funny too!” Tucker replies. “Besides, he wanted to know what projectile vomiting was because everyone kept bringing it up when he was sick, so…” He stops at the look on Wash’s face. “Uh, anyway...I'm gonna pick up a night light at the store on the way back…”

Wash hums knowingly.

“And uh, maybe get some extra salt for the windows...”

Wash pauses.

“And then maybe we can stop by a church and pick up some holy water,” Tucker finishes all in a rush, as if saying it quickly will somehow make the whole thing less ridiculous.

“Tucker,” Washington begins very carefully, “you do realize my apartment isn't actually haunted, right?”

“Pshh, _yeah_ ,” Tucker says, and to his credit he doesn't sound like he's lying. “You moved in when they made the place two years ago. Nobody’s even had time to die in it yet.”

“That's not exactly what I meant…”

“Oh, _whatever_!” Tucker says in exasperation. “Who cares? I don't give a _shit_ whether it's haunted or not! I just want something that’ll trick Junior into having a good night’s sleep for once!”

And Washington can't exactly argue with that, even if it means that he’ll be spending half of his weekend helping Tucker make salt lines on all of the windows and thick protective circles around the bed that will seep in the carpet he just bought a month ago and turn it so gritty that it’ll take multiple vacuumings to get rid of the mess.

Washington sighs. “Fine,” he grumbles, giving in at long last. “But you're the one who’s going to explain what we need the holy water for.”

* * *

 

In the end, Tucker puts some holy water in the old bottle Wash used to spray his misbehaving cat with when it was alive, and the two of them spend the rest of the day “cleansing” the apartment while quoting random bits of Latin under Junior’s watchful gaze.

“ _Carpe diem!_ ” Tucker chants ominously as he sprays the darkest corner of the guest room. He holds up the dollar store rosary they picked up on the way. “ _Carpe diem, carpe diem, carpe diem!_ Begone, spirit!”

“ _E pluribus unum_ ,” Washington adds. “ _Semper fidelis._ Amen.”

Tucker sends him a quick, amused look that Junior thankfully doesn't see, less grateful that Wash is playing along and more deeply entertained by it. He suspects that Monday will bring the expected jokes and comments from the peanut gallery at work, which is ironic, considering that he knows for a fact that half of them tried to hold an _actual_ seance last Halloween in order to, quote: “ask the spirit world where Simmons’ missing testicles were.”

Holding a fake exorcism for a scared boy shouldn't be embarrassing by comparison, and yet somehow he knows they'll make it seem like it should be.

“Okay, I think that's everything,” Tucker tells Junior as he takes one last thoughtful glance around the room. “That should keep out any bad guys that try to fuck with us.”

Junior beams at them, bright like sunlight, the same smile that Tucker sometimes sends Wash’s way after too many drinks have stripped away the harshness and the high walls. The one that never fails to make Wash stop in his tracks, heart beating just a little bit faster as he wonders if this will finally be the day one of them takes the next step.

To his own surprise, Washington finds himself grinning back at the face in miniature, cheeks aching as the unfamiliar contentedness rises up and causes him to flush. His vague annoyance at the thought of future teasing fades entirely, as does the back-of-the-head complaints about having to clean his carpet.

Neither of those things seem important at the moment.

* * *

 

The next morning, a knock on the bathroom door startles him as he's brushing his teeth. Slowly, he removes the brush and spits out toothpaste into the sink, then asks the person on the other side what they want.

“Let me in!” comes the hissed reply.

Washington stares at the door in disbelief, then glances at himself in the mirror, reminding himself just how undressed he is at the moment. “Tucker, you can wait until I'm done,” he says irritably.

“I don't have to piss, dude, I just want to talk.”

Washington shares a blank look with his reflection, the only one around here with any sympathy for him. “We can talk at breakfast,” he reminds Tucker, using the firm, even tone he learned in the military.

“It's about—” And here Tucker’s voice lowers so much that Washington can barely make the rest out. “It's about Junior, okay? And I don't want him to know that we’re talking about him.”

Just for a second, Wash raises his eyes skyward and prays to a god he isn't sure he believes in for strength. “Fine,” he manages to say through clenched teeth. “Just. Give me a moment.”

“Cool.”

Washington hates having to put clothes on while he's still damp from a shower, but he pats himself dry as much as he can and tugs his underwear and pants on anyway, grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes clinging to him. The real problem comes when he goes to put on his shirt and discovers it missing; forgetting his clothes in his bedroom was never such a big deal when he lived alone, but now that Tucker and Junior are living there, he's done his best to cut down on partial or total nudity.

“Hey, what's the hold up?”

Wash grimaces. “Nothing,” he insists. He reaches for the doorknob, hesitating as he takes one last look at himself in the mirror, then quickly opens the door before he loses his nerve. “Come on in.”

Tucker startles at the suddenness of the door flinging open, his eyes going wide first in surprise, then in something like appreciation. His gaze doesn't stray too long, but it makes Washington go warm regardless, especially when Tucker turns a smirk his way and outright asks, “How far down do the freckles go?”

Washington pulls his dignity around him and shuts the door as he lets Tucker walk in past him, waiting for him to sit on the closed toilet lid before he responds with, “You’ll never find out personally.”

“Heh,” Tucker says, though it seems kind of empty for a laugh.

Wash wonders for a moment if he should've said something else to ease the tension instead—or, alternately, to increase it, like questioning whether or not Tucker was willing to play connect-the-dots all the way down, preferably with those full lips and sharp tongue of his.

Instead, he reaches out with a foot and nudges one of Tucker's sock-covered ones to get them both back on track. Tucker in turn looks down at it curiously, almost as if it's an oddity, a small smile curving up at the sight of the pattern on them.

Strangely, _that's_ the thing that finally makes the world tilt on its side and causes goosebumps to cross the span of his body: forget the lack of shirt, forget the fact that they're trapped in a tiny bathroom together, forget the underlying sexual attraction; Tucker seeing his _Neko Atsume_ socks are definitely the most uncomfortably intimate thing about this situation.

“Tucker,” Wash says with a voice that's gone suddenly tight, “why are you here?”

Tucker blinks hard, then seems to shake himself. “What? Uh, right. Oh! Yeah, it's about Junior,” he explains. “And the whole ghost/demon thing. It didn't work. He still got scared last night.”

Wash frowns. “Even with you there?”

He gets a nod. “Yeah. He kept waking me up in the middle of the night because he thought he saw someone there.”

Washington’s frown deepens. “And the nightlight didn't help at all?”

Tucker lifts both hands helplessly. “I don't know. I guess? I mean, I thought it was helping because he didn't need me to stay in there in order to get to sleep, but he's still talking about ghosts and stuff, so it's like ‘what the fuck!?’ Y’know?”

“I know.”

“So…?”

He shifts, caught by the pleading expression on Tucker’s face, but completely lost as to what to do about the situation. As much as he jokes about wrangling the immature adults at work, it's not really the same as dealing with an actual child. Still, Washington hesitates, unwilling to say so out loud for fear of causing the vague look of hope to disappear of Tucker's face entirely.

After a moment, Tucker seems to get it regardless. “Shit,” he mutters, and leans forward to bury his head in his hands, fingers covering all the obvious and earnest emotion he never seems to be able to hide when it comes to Junior. “Shit, okay, I didn't want to have to do this, but I guess it's time for Plan B.”

“Plan B?” Washington echoes, giving in and speaking at last.

Tucker slowly moves his hands away from his face and raises his chin in graceful solemnity, looking so grave and so suddenly determined in that very instant that it sends a chill down Washington’s spine.

Wash swallows hard. “What's Plan B, Tucker?”

“You're not gonna like it, Wash.”

* * *

 

Tucker was right. Wash doesn't like it all.

But at least he's dressed now. That's a partial improvement.

“I can take you to the bookstore downtown,” Washington offers. Tucker ignores him and continues to peer at the stack of books piled high on the kitchen table. “We could get something for children instead.”

“Junior just started marathoning some show on Netflix.”

“He can pick it up later.”

“Yeah, but…” Tucker finally stops squinting at the titles of the dozens upon dozens of self-help books in front of him and looks over at the man that’s trying to beam a very particular thought in his head. “Dude, what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing!”

Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Uh-huh,” he replies. He rolls his eyes. “Look, if this is about the mess thing again, I promise to put the books back in the right order, okay? That's why I'm keeping them in stacks. So you don't have to freak out or get your undies in a bundle.”

“I'm not freaking out,” Wash protests, which isn't even technically a lie. His freakouts are usually a lot more vocal. “I just don't see how they'll be useful for the situation we’re in with Junior.”

“Wait, what?” Tucker says in confusion. “I thought you said your mom suggested you buy them in the first place because they had a lot of stuff about dealing with nightmares and shit.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Washington replies, knowing full well that he's coming off a bit too cagey to be convincing. He flounders, hoping it doesn't show on the outside, then pushes through the exact same combination of desperation and dismay in his own life choices that once led to an impressive meltdown and him being banned from a Las Vegas pet shop. “Most of them are about PTSD and dealing with the aftermath of traumatic events.”

Tucker hesitates, squinting at Wash.

Wash slumps down low in his chair, one hand coming up to swipe across his face. “...are you sure we can't try another exorcism?” he offers weakly. “I think my mother is friends with an actual priest.”

Well, a preacher. Maybe. Come to think of it, it might actually just be a guy who got ordained on the internet for his sister's wedding. But Tucker doesn't need to know that, and in fact, he gazes at Wash with a thoughtful expression, as though he's actually considering the offer.

But then he opens his mouth and bursts Wash’s bubble.

“Okay, seriously, what's your deal?”

Washington reels up, back going straight again as he unconsciously moves into some kind of sitting version of attention, complete with blank face and eyes shifting  away from Tucker’s face and into the distance over his shoulder. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Tucker glares, then slams his hands down and leans his body over the pile of books, ignoring the way the careful stacks come undone under the weight of his chest and topple into a random pile on the table. Wash only has a moment to remind himself that Tucker is quite possibly the _worst roommate ever of all time_ before the man in question is in his face, shoving his nose into Washington’s business.

“Spill,” Tucker growls, and if Washington flushes for the second time that Sunday morning, it's only because of the subject matter and not because he's surprisingly into the unexpected rumble and the pushy command.

Wash shifts, then admits, “It's embarrassing.”

Tucker falters at that, clearly startled at the admission. “What, your uh...your nightmares?” he asks, sounding gratifyingly uneasy with the topic at hand. “You already told me about those.”

Which is true. He'd been drunk at the time, but he had actually talked about them, something he hadn't done with anyone else, not even his court-mandated therapist.

“It's not my nightmares.”

Tucker frowns, his bafflement making him back off a bit, which puts him at only two feet away instead of the more painfully awkward one. “Then what?” he asks, sounding like he really wants to know, and not just so he can potentially help Junior. “Because you're acting really weird, even for you. Like, even I know you're not really _this_ anal about people messing with your stuff. And you're okay with us reading your other books.”

Washington runs his fingers through his hair. “It's what's _in_ the books that are embarrassing,” he tries to explain without explaining.

“What, like pictures or something?” Tucker asks, sounding intrigued. “Is that where you hide the stuff for your spank bank? ‘Cause most people use their phone or computer for that stuff, but I dunno, I guess it makes sense that you're into that vintage shit.”

Wash’s left eye twitches. “What!?”

Suddenly, Tucker stands up and bursts out laughing, loud and joyous, so forceful that he throws himself back into his chair before he falls over. “Oh, holy crap. ‘Self-help.’ I just got that. Good one, dude.”

Washington takes a deep breath. Then he takes another. Then he looks at the ceiling and contemplates it for a while, staring at the familiar water stain from where the person in 4a somehow flooded their kitchen after trying to fix their own dishwasher.

“Wait, _all_ these books have porn in them?”

Wash clears his throat. “It's not—”

“But there's like hundreds of pages in every book!”

“Tucker, I don't put por—”

“And there's gotta be at least thirty books here!”

Washington’s jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly. “ _Tucker_ , if you would just _listen_ to me, you'd know that—”

“I mean fuck, dude, this is awesome,” Tucker says enthusiastically. He chortles again, looking far too pleased with himself. “I had no idea you had it in you! Heh. In you. Bow chika wow wow.”

“Tucker, just open one of the damn books already!”

Tucker, inexplicably, rocks back like he's been slapped. “Gross, man! I'm not looking at your porn!” he exclaims in disgust, as though his hands weren't already moving to grab the thickest book in the pile. “That's gotta be breaking the bro code, right? Like, you're not supposed to know what kind of kinky shit your buds are into—wait what the fuck is this?”

“My porn collection,” Washington says wryly.

“No, it's not!” Tucker replies, sounding extremely betrayed. “It's like…” He picks the book up and flips through the pages again, as if searching in vain for the pictures he hoped would be there. “What is this?”

Wash sighs. “I write in the books sometimes.”

Tucker pauses and looks up, meeting Wash’s gaze, expression turning serious in an instant, all of his attention focused on Washington in that rare way it does when they're having an honest conversation. “Uh…”

“When I’m angry. Or when I have nightmares. Or when I just can't sleep.”

Tucker nods, but it seems like it's just to keep the conversation going, not because he doesn't know what to say. “Should I, uh…” One hand hovers in the air for a moment, then comes back down to rest on the book, shutting it with a finality that seems...loud, somehow, and yet incredibly soft. “I'm just gonna...put the books back on the shelf.”

“You don't have to,” Wash says in a rush, causing Tucker to startle, his head snapping up from where it dropped to bow over the task of piling the books back up again as his brown eyes go wide. Washington winces in response and continues to explain. “Really. It's not what you think.”

Tucker tilts his head.

“Just...open the book,” Wash mutters for a second time.

After a few seconds that are filled with uncertainty, Tucker does as he says, lifting the book he just dropped and tilting it on the edge of the table before he glances up at Wash with a questioning look.

“You can probably open it at any point.”

“Okaaay,” Tucker responds. He pokes his finger in the book and flips it open at random, about halfway through it according to Wash’s eye. With one last ‘ _are you sure?’_ glance at Wash, Tucker silently begins to read, brow furrowing at what he finds there.

It takes a few moments for it all to sink in.

Then, he glances up again, a hidden smile slowly beginning to dawn on his face. “Wash…” he starts, drawing the name out like someone sharing the best secret ever. “Wash, is the whole book like this? Are _all_ the books like this?”

Washington bites back his own smirk.

Tucker sees it anyway, and he chokes, just once, on a held-in laugh, shoulders shaking almost helplessly as he tries to contain his amusement and disbelief, all the while clutching the book to his chest as though it contains something precious. “Are you kidding!?” he says in a very strained voice. “Tell me you're not kidding!”

He finally cracks, letting loose a chuckle that has Tucker responding with what could only be called a high-pitched laugh if charitable, but more accurately resembles a giggle.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Tucker says, giving that strange giggle-snort again. The sound has Washington laughing again, the sound coming easier this time. “Oh my god, we thought you were serious about this shit!”

“I am,” Washington says through his laughter. “I am very serious.”

“Bullshit!” Tucker crows. “We thought you were _serious_ and all this time you've been mocking the _fuck_ out of these books in your downtime, like, like—” He pulls the book from his chest and quotes from it. “‘Your writing puts me to sleep faster than your sleeping exercises do.’” He flips ahead. “Or— _oh shit_ , wait, this is a good one: ‘this part very insightful—I now understand why you've been divorced three times.’ Jeez, Wash, did you _research_ this guy!?”

Washington shrugs modestly. Sometimes, when it's three in the morning and he's very angry at a particular author, he goes online and hunts down information about them and their opinions/politics from twitter and facebook. If they seem okay, his comments stick to the ineptness of their writing. If he finds out they're an asshole...things get personal.

Tucker grins back at him, clearly delighting in Washington’s pettiness. “So, what, you really buy all these books just to make fun of them?” he asks without a hint of actual judgment in his voice. “‘Cause that's a lot of money to spend on spite.”

“Most of them came from them bargain bin,” he acknowledges. Not all, but some. Most of the early ones actually came from his mother in some last ditch effort to help him move on. Surprisingly, it helped. In a way. He hesitates, then admits: “It's actually kind of relaxing.”

“What, reaming out people when they can't get mad at you for it?” Tucker jokes. He smiles again, but it's kinder this time, though he doubts Tucker would ever associate that word with himself. “It's cool, dude. I get it. We all gotta get that sweet release somehow. I mean, I prefer to get mine in other ways, but—”

“Thank you, Tucker,” Wash cuts in pointedly.

“I mean sex,” Tucker supplies.

“I got that, yes.”

“And sometimes jerking it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“With a little bit of finger action, if you know what I'm talking about—”

“That's _enough_ , Tucker!” Washington bursts out, inwardly glaring at his groin for daring to twitch with interest, even as his brain treacherously files that information away for later use. He calms, and his voice is far more dry when he speaks next, while his pants are only a tiny bit tighter. “You know innuendos only work if you're _insinuating_ something, right?”

Tucker crosses his arms, irritation briefly flitting across his face before it’s wiped away with a cool and easy smirk. “Yeah, well, sometimes you don't get things unless people are being really obvious,” he points out.

Washington scoffs. “It's not that complicated.”

“Sure it's not,” Tucker returns. He smiles again, though there's something false in it. “Like...shit, remember last month—no, wait, it was like a month and a half ago. I think? Whatever. That time I dragged you to that club Sister works at to hang out. Remember that?”

Washington remembers.

“I hated it,” he says flatly.

The smile gets a little more honest. “Yeah, I know. You kinda suck that way. But anyway, that hot-ass bartender flirted with you all fucking night long and you didn't even notice until she straight up asked you if wanted to bang in the back office during her break.”

Washington grimaces at the reminder, mind instantly flashing back to the most embarrassing part of the evening—namely, how flustered he was by her bluntness, so surprised by it that he nearly wound up pouring his drink all over himself. But even that memory isn't painful enough to have him ignoring the point of Tucker's story.

“No, that wasn't what...she wasn't flirting with me _all_ night, right?” Wash asks, baffled at the very idea. He would have noticed, regardless of what Tucker thinks. “At the end, yeah, but…”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, all night.”

He frowns, then shakes his head, denying it. “No, I definitely would have noticed—”

“ _Ha!_ ”

“You weren't even there!” Wash protests. Tucker'd been off dancing at the time, trying his luck and failing with several different women before giving up and going off into a dark corner with a guy. “How would you have seen what was going on?”

“I had to come back for drinks eventually,” Tucker says defensively. His arms cross even tighter over his chest. “Besides, I was staying away on _purpose_ , dude. I wasn't gonna cockblock you once you actually had a chance of getting laid.”

“I thought we were there to hang out, not get laid.”

“Yeah, well, you didn't want to hang out.”

Not at the club, no. It was too loud and too filled with people, even if the mixed drinks and dance music were both far more enjoyable than Washington will ever admit to liking.

The company, though. That was worth it.

But still...

“I don't dance,” Washington reminds Tucker. He hasn't since his days in the military, when Carolina and the others would get everyone together and drag them out to make fools of themselves whenever they all had free time. Back then, drinking somehow always led to him dancing on tables and then nursing a hangover the next day while carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes.

He’s learned how to hold his liquor since then, but still: better safe than sorry.

Tucker disagrees. “ _Carolina_ says you dance.”

Goddammit. He swore her to secrecy.

“I don't dance _anymore_ ,” Washington corrects. He avoids Tucker's gaze. “That's the only reason I stayed at the bar the whole night. It wasn't because I was...interested in anyone. In her.”

Tucker uncrosses his arms, then recrosses them awkwardly. Wash sees him do it out of the corner of his eye, and sympathizes with how uncomfortable he looks. “That didn't stop you from taking her up on her it.”

“Well. She offered.”

Tucker scoffs. “What, is that all it takes?

Washington run his fingers over the table, smoothing both hands over them in an effort to get rid of the nervous energy at his fingertips. “Uh,” he starts, then clears his throat when the words come out rough. “Sometimes?”

The silence is almost stifling, filled with something neither can say. Then:

“Huh,” Tucker says. “Good to know.”

* * *

 

In the end, they look through some of the books anyway.

Tucker figures it’s worth a shot, and Wash is forced to agree after hearing him out; it’s true, after all, that just because the things in the books didn’t work for Wash doesn’t mean that they won’t work for Junior, and even a small chance is better than none at all. So Wash picks out the ones least deserving of being burned in a fire and together they spend a few mostly silent hours scribbling notes on scraps of paper, the quiet only broken by the occasional appreciative snicker from Tucker when he comes across yet another snarky comment that Washington left in the margins.

They break for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup out of a can around lunch, which they eat in the living room with Junior while watching _Voltron_. It's not the same as the version Wash knew growing up, but it's not bad, even though the different corresponding colors for some of the pilots throws him off. Still, it’s interesting enough to keep his attention, enough so that he's almost disappointed when Tucker picks up their empty bowls and napkins in a clear attempt to get them back in the kitchen.

To his surprise, Tucker doesn't immediately insist that they get back to work, but instead settles beside Washington at the sink, close enough that their hips and sides brush against each other as they clean up the combined mess of breakfast and lunch. Wash only notices because Tucker doesn’t seem to; he thinks, for a moment, that Tucker might, but before either of them can react or move to put some distance between them, Tucker cuts in with a stream of chatter about the show they just watched that thoroughly distracts them both until they’re done.

Comparing notes, in the end, is fairly easy. They threw out all the same ideas, it seems, and for all the exact same reasons, while only keeping a small handful that sound like something they could wrangle a seven-year-old into trying. For that reason, both meditation and relaxation exercises are out, as Junior has neither the attention span nor the temperament to manage to do either.

“I mean, we could _try_ ,” Tucker concedes, “but he already has to sit down and be still and quiet and shit every day at school, so I'm pretty sure he’ll riot if we tell him we want him to do that stuff when he comes home too.”

Washington shrugs with one shoulder. “There's a few you can walk him through while he's lying in bed.” Breathing exercises, techniques for getting rid of anxious thoughts, even things to help relax your muscles. “You might want to try one or two with him.”

“Yeah?” Tucker says hopefully. “Did they work for you?”

He looks over at Tucker then, meeting his gaze firmly. “No.” He watches as Tucker's face falls, taking no joy in seeing it happen, but seeing no reason to lie about his own mental health to one of his closest friends. Well, not about this, anyway. “Or...they didn't work for long.”

Tucker blinks in confusion, dark lashes fluttering rapidly. “Uh…”

“They worked in the beginning,” Wash explains as he folds his hands on the table in front of him. He keeps his voice as even as possible and his face as blank as he knows how, and yet, somehow, it still feels as though every emotion he has is on display. “But eventually the nightmares came back. And the insomnia.”

Tucker knows better than to show too much sympathy for him when it's clear he doesn't want it. “So what did you try after that, then?” he asks Wash. “Because you don't seem like the kind of guy who’ll sit around smelling and tasting things to feel better.”

Washington thinks about it. “I mostly tried to tire myself out.”

A beat, and then Tucker snickers.

Wash rolls his eyes in response. “Not _that_ way,” he replies, even though that's pretty much a lie. One of the books had even suggested masturbation as a way to get himself relaxed before bed, right alongside hot baths and soothing rain sounds. “I meant exercise. Long jogs. Squats. Sit-ups.”

“And _that_ worked?” Tucker asks.

Washington hesitates.

“Oh,” Tucker says. Frustration crosses his face, quick and bitter, and even though Wash knows it's more about the situation than anything else, it still manages to make him bristle.

“I told you this wasn't a good idea,” he snaps.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Tucker says, easier and calmer than Wash expected. “Don't get all fucking bitchy on me. I didn't even say anything.”

“You…”

Wash doesn't finish his sentence, because even he knows ‘you frowned’ isn't a good enough reason, especially for an expression that was gone so fast it might as well have not been there at all.

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” Tucker adds obnoxiously.

Washington breathes in sharply through his nose, grasping at control over his temper even as his hands unfold to form separate fists. “It did work,” he clarifies, “for awhile, off and on. Better than the other things did. But it's not a miracle cure, Tucker. Nothing is.”

“I know that!” Tucker protests. “It's just…” He slumps in his chair, shoulders holding a defeated quality to them that Washington never wanted to see. “I can't exactly afford the therapy co-pay right now, y’know? We have to save up for a new apartment and furniture and shit.”

He feels himself soften at the words. “I know, Tucker.”

Tucker sighs, deep and heavy from his chest, like a lost and weary old man who has seen more than his share of sorrows. Or like Wash, come to think of it. Some days, he thinks that’s the exact same thing, anyway.

“I was gonna—” Tucker stops, pausing for a second before rushing ahead as he seemingly regains his courage. “I know it’s stupid, dude, so don’t fucking lecture me about it. But I was gonna spend part of my next paycheck buying some games and stuff to cheer him up.”

Washington carefully says nothing.

Tucker ducks his head, unsuccessfully hiding the despondent frown on his face. “Shut up, okay? You don’t know what he’s like. He just...he misses all his stuff, alright? Like, his toys and his games and even his fucking bedspread and shit. Even the color of his bedroom walls are different here. And it’s driving him up the wall.”

“I thought he liked the cobalt,” Wash says inanely.

Tucker flails in frustration. “It’s not as cool as aqua!”

And Washington finds himself, quite suddenly, wanting to say something completely irrational, like, ‘we could buy some paint,’ or ‘I could pay for everything if you wanted to go shopping.’ In that moment, it actually seems feasible, and he weighs the added cost against his bills and the way they’ve gone up with two extra people living in-house.

In the end, practicality wins out, but it's by a very, _very_ small margin.

“Exercise might be our best bet,” Wash says in a quick attempt to get back to the subject. “It's a good stress-reliever if we can convince him to do it regularly.” He stops, then hides a smirk as something occurs to him. “But it’ll probably be easier to convince him if everyone plays along.”

Tucker nods off-hand. “Yeah, otherwise he’ll totally kick up…” He trails off, suddenly sitting up straight as a comically suspicious look crosses his face. “Oh, no. No, no, no. No _fucking_ way. Not again!”

“Tucker…”

“Fuck you!” Tucker howls. “I already have an ass to die for! There's nothing else that you can improve on!”

“Oh?” Wash replies. He leans back in his chair, allowing the self-satisfied smile to let itself loose. “Because according to Kai, you could really use some help building up your stamina.”

Tucker’s mouth drops open in pure disbelief. Then, slowly, an expression crosses his face: one that’s more crafty than the offended look that Wash expected. “Hey, baby,” he croons, “if you really wanted to help me out with my stamina, we could head back to your bedroom and—”

“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” Washington reminds him dryly, “and your son is in the other room.”

“That's not a no!” Tucker says with glee.

Washington raises a brow.

“Well, okay,” Tucker amends, “it's _kind of_ a no, but I mean, it's not like you said you didn't want to help me ou—”

“Tucker?” Washington cuts in smoothly. “Not _now._ ”

And then he sits there, smile curving on his face as he waits for the fallout, holding Tucker’s gaze steadily as the humor in the air fades and a tension rises in its place, a slow shift into heat and pleasure that builds low in his stomach and pulses with _want_.

Tucker shivers, swaying forward, his body unconsciously moving closer in a way that leaves Wash swallowing hard. “Not now,” he says again, low and firm like a promise. “Tucker, not now.”

And Tucker agrees, nodding slowly, but he makes it clear from the look he sends Wash’s way before they part that the fire between them is only banked.

 _“Good_ ,” Washington thinks.

* * *

 

Later, he remembers that look when he's lying in bed.

For once, his brain is quiet and his muscles don't ache from the stress he's built throughout the day. The familiar twinge of a tension headache is all but gone, and without the need for the medication that barely ever puts a dent in the pain.

He feels lighter, somehow.

And he knows it won't last, not really, because sometimes it feels like he doesn't know anyone who’s ever been able to hold onto happiness the way that they've wanted to; like he’s never met anyone who hasn't had it ripped away by death or despair or their own desperate love of destruction…

But in this moment, in the dark, he remembers the light in Tucker’s eyes.

And he wants to try.

* * *

 

The next morning, strangely enough, begins with Tucker waking Washington up fifteen minutes later than he usually gets up with a few short raps on the door that nonetheless sound like cannonballs going off inside his head.

Wash jerks up in bed in shock, disoriented by the sound.

“Wash?” Tucker says through the door after a couple of seconds. “You awake or what? Because you're usually the first one up and we’re starting to wonder if you got replaced by a pod person or something.”

“I'm—” Wash stops and clears his throat. “I'm fine.”

There's another short period of silence. Washington doesn't realize that Tucker's waiting for something until he speaks up again, saying, “Uh, okay...are you gonna come out and have breakfast with us then, or what?”

Washington blinks.

“I made bacon.”

“You _cooked_?” Wash says in surprise.

“I cook!” Tucker says defensively. “Dude, what the fuck? I made dinner last night. You ate like three helpings.” True, but in his defense, it’d been a long time since he’d had chili that good. “So don't fucking act like I don't cook!”

“I know!” Wash replies as quick as he can. He throws the blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the bed, hopping up and adjusting his sleep clothes as he walks to the door. “You just don't usually cook breakfast, that's all.”

Neither of them do really, which is why there are four different kinds of cereal in the cupboards despite there only being two adults and one child in the apartment.

“I wanted to talk to Junior about that whole exercise thing again,” Tucker says. He hmms, though the noise is faint through the wood, sounding like he's still mulling something over. “He still seems cool with it, I guess _._ But he decided he wants to try _yoga_.”

Washington flings the door open and tries not to smirk at the startled expression on Tucker's face. “What's wrong with yoga?”

Tucker recovers quickly. “Uh, besides the fact that we're gonna be watching family stuff on YouTube and not a bunch of hot, flexible chicks in yoga pants from a couple feet away?”

“Of course,” Wash says with a wry look.

And then he and Tucker stare at each other. In the few seconds that it takes for the moment to get suddenly and yet strikingly awkward, Washington has the time to realize a few key details about himself: that his hair, for instance, is curling slightly because he let it dry wet, and he can't run off to attack it with product like usual without looking obvious; that his teeth tastes like he’s eaten cotton and his breath probably smells like he ate a diseased donkey whole; that he has creases on his skin and is wearing mismatched clothes; that he has probably never looked less attractive.

“You, uh,” Tucker starts. “You're usually a lot more put-together than this.”

Wash feels himself flush in embarrassment. “I'm usually up first in the morning,” he points out through gritted teeth. “Because _some of us_ have better things to do than laze around all day.”

“Hey, I'm always on time for work!”

Wash arches a brow.

“Okay, fine. _Usually_.” Tucker amends. He rolls his eyes. “What the fuck ever. Who even cares? Besides, we carpool these days anyway, so it doesn't even matter if I sleep an extra ten minutes, right? As long as we leave the house at the right time.”

Washington scoffs in response, then makes to shove his way forward, stopping when the ball of his foot steps down on something uncomfortable and gritty. “Tucker...” he grinds out. “What am I going to see when I look down?”

Tucker reaches over to smack Wash gently on the side of his arm. “Relax, dude,” he replies, laughing at look on Wash’s face all the while. “It's just salt. Junior decided you needed some protecting too.”

Wash’s hand, already lifted in the air to push Tucker to the side, stops mid-air and dangles uselessly an inch away from the chest in front of him. “I—what?” he says, feeling like his brain has stalled out.

“Yeah,” Tucker says. He scratches the side of his head, an almost self-conscious tinge to his body language that Wash make heads or tails of until he says what he does next. “I don't know why you're surprised. You're part of the family. Of course he's gonna wanna protect you.”

Washington’s breath hitches.

Tucker’s eyes flitter away, then back to meet Wash’s, holding his gaze strangely. Almost, somehow, as if he's making sure they both know it's true, or like he's making some kind of statement of intent. And it seems, for a moment, like it’s way too much. Like it's too big for people who haven't even started dated yet.

But when he thinks about it, _really_ thinks about it, they've been each other’s family for a very long. Maybe not mutually, not forever. But Tucker’s been _his_ family almost since the beginning, ever since he and his friends saw a broken and bitter old vet and decided to adopt him instead of letting him finish what the rest of the world started and destroying the last remains of himself.

He had to become a better man before he earned a place in Tucker’s family and not just his group of friends. But he's earned it over the years. He's earned it with ceaseless loyalty and brutal honesty, with petty bickering and real arguments and by letting plenty of annoying (if funny) jokes at his expense pass by. He's earned it by being there even when others weren't.

And Tucker suddenly straightens up as if he heard all that, at which point Washington realizes that his hovering hand has inched forward enough to press against cloth. He stares at it, eyes darting back up to check Tucker for a reaction, and when he finds what he's looking for something in him settles. He calms, and the hand shifts down to squeeze Tucker’s waist in acknowledgment of his words, sneaking fingertips finding warm skin in a way that has Tucker distracted in an instant.

“Breakfast,” Washington says firmly, pushing Tucker back with that same sly hand and knocking the pleasant thoughts right out of his head.

Tucker gapes and sputters, arms flailing wildly in the air like a cartoon character. “Fuck breakfast!” he says in dismay, comically upset in a way that would be bemusing any other day. “Seriously. Fuck it! Unless I can lick it off your chest, I don't want it!”

It's Wash’s turn to sputter this time, though not, he suspects, for the same reasons. For once, he’s too exasperated to bother flushing, and even his dick is too surprised by the comment to take interest in what Tucker had to say.

Wash boggles. “I barely touched you!”

“So?” Tucker replies.

It's a good argument, Wash’s dick points out, shock wearing off in time to let it rejoin the conversation. His brain, not to be left out, helpfully reminds him that there's a bed only a few feet away, while his mouth decides to make a counter-argument and remind him about the diseased donkey problem they're still dealing with.

“We’ll be late for work,” Washington tries.

Tucker makes a face. “Haven't you ever heard of a quickie?”

And that's when Wash’s mouth, who can't manage to keep out of the discussion, decides to open itself and outright say, “Maybe I want to take my time.”

Which miraculously manages to shut Tucker up.

He's quiet all the way back to the kitchen, following Wash back like a duckling, the thoughtful but eager expression on his face promising a future that Washington will be thinking about all day long.

And then he ruins the quiet by smacking Wash loudly on the ass right before they go in.

Sometimes he can't believe this is the man he's in love with.

* * *

 

Yoga doesn't start until much, much later, when they've both come home at the end of the day, after finishing their meals and spending some much deserved time apart. They've been doing that off and on a regular basis for the last couple of days, both to give Tucker and Junior some bonding time and to prevent another Asshole Incident, which is what Tucker called it the last time Wash got a little twitchy and started leaving passive aggressive—or just _aggressive_ aggressive—post-its notes around the apartment for Tucker to find.

(He's starting to discover that Tucker isn't the only one who’s a bad roommate. Thankfully, the learning curve isn't too steep. Besides, they’d been spending all their time together prior to that for the last couple of weeks, so things were bound to start getting rough again eventually. He’s just glad it happened with notes and not with a bitter argument in front of Junior.)

But anyway, Junior takes to yoga with surprising enthusiasm, right up till the point where he finds out that he won't be able to do any of the more interesting poses. After that, his interest flags exponentially, which makes Wash wonder what Tucker told him yoga was like in the first place.

“I didn't tell him anything,” Tucker says after they're finished dealing with that problem. “He chose it himself. I think he heard Doc and Donut talking about it once or something. I think they do that sweaty kind twice a week.”

“And you're _sure_ you didn't mention…”

“What? You think I was talking with my kid about…” He lowers his voice, but otherwise doesn't miss a beat. “...the kind of positions all those sexy yoga chicks get themselves in?”

Washington side-eyes him.

“And dudes and other people,” Tucker amends hastily.

“Not the part I—nevermind,” Washington says, cutting himself off with a sigh. He continues to watch Junior attempt handstands off against a wall where it's safe, watching as he wobbles to and fro before falling to all fours and then immediately hopping up again. “He’s getting better at that.”

Tucker preens as if he were the one complimented. “Yeah, he's a natural,” he brags, and leans over to nudge Wash in the side with enthusiasm, grin spreading across his face when Wash puts up with it with good humor.

And then he kind of... _stays_ _where he is_ , collapsing into Washington’s side with the type of easiness that usually comes from too many beers. It's casual, but almost too much so, and Wash sits there, body stiff, as Tucker attempts to mold them together, hyperaware of the slight aura of discomfort wafting off both of them, but unable to figure out if he's overthinking things or seeing too clearly.

In the end, Tucker huffs out in disbelief and shifts away, crossing over to the other side of the couch before finally muttering into his own chest, “I think we're way better at hitting on each other than all of this dating shit.”

“I've never been good at dating anyone,” Washington confesses.

He tried, in high school, but no one really caught his attention until the end of his senior year, and by that point, they weren't interested in starting anything too serious. After that, he went straight into the military, and by the time he was out, he was dealing with a whole host of mental issues that didn't exactly put him in the right mindset to start anything—even if he actually _wanted_ to.

And Washington rarely wanted to.

“This is...new territory for me,” Wash finishes with difficulty. But he wants to try. He can't bring himself to say that, not out loud, and certainly not with a child in the room. But he means it. And he hopes Tucker can figure that out.

And somehow, he actually does.

Tucker looks up at the words, something vulnerable on his face, in his _eyes_. They hover on the edge of guardedness, like someone someone who wants to trust but who has seen too much, and Washington holds his breath, waiting for the decision to be made either way.

But then Tucker sighs, and Wash sighs with him.

“It's cool,” Tucker says, carefully careless as he turns and drops his sock-covered feet into Wash’s lap. “No one’s good at dating, right? And, I mean, we could be worse. We could be like Church and Tex.”

“Or we could be like Grif and Simmons and not even admit we’re dating.”

“Uh, that's ‘cause they're not dating, bro.”

He greets that comment with the silence it deserves.

“I mean because they're married.”

Washington laughs, which finally kills the tension between them. It doesn't seem to matter to Tucker that it comes out more relieved at the normality than anything else. He welcomes it the way he welcomes Wash's hesitant hand on his ankle: with a happy hum and a warm and heady look.

It feels like winning.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, the yoga didn't seem to help at all that night.

“Or, well, it _kinda_ did,” Tucker reports on their way to work the next day. They just finished dropping Junior off at school, so they're free to talk without worrying about being overheard.

Wash glances at him before looking back at the road. “What does that mean?” he asks, brow furrowing as he attempts to figure that out. He waits patiently for the light to turn green, fingers clenching on the wheel when the driver behind him honks loudly less than two seconds after it changes colors.

“What an asshole!” Tucker says. “You should—okay, I was gonna say you should wait an extra couple of seconds just to be a dick, but we’re already moving.” He makes a face. “Anyway, it means what I said. It _kinda_ worked. Junior didn't wake me up with nightmares or anything, but…”

“But…?”

He watches Tucker shift out of the corner of his eye.

“But I woke up this morning because I heard him whispering in the closet around six?”

Washington waits until they're at the next light to speak. “Maybe that's a good thing,” he suggests. He taps his fingers against the wheel once, then twice more, weighing it over before turning to Tucker. “If he’s trying to face his fears, he might be able to move past them.”

Tucker startles, as if the idea never occurred to him. “I—huh,” he says slowly. “Yeah, that...that could work.” He turns and looks out the window for a long moment, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks at a rapid pace. Then he turns back, eyes lit with a new hope. “Hey, I bet it’s because of that movie he made me download yesterday while you were out with Carolina.”

“Hopefully not another _Exorcist_ ,” Washington teases.

Tucker reaches over and whacks him in the shoulder. Gently, of course, due to him driving, but definitely still a whack. “No! Shut up! It was a kid’s movie, okay!? About this guy who could talk to ghosts. And there were zombies too. It seemed pretty cool. But yeah, that’s probably where he got the idea. Or maybe he got the idea and then watched the movie to see how it was done. That sounds like him.”

Tucker continues to chatter the rest of the way to work, switching at one point from the topic at hand to talk about the time an older cousin once convinced him that _Return of the Living Dead_ was a documentary. From there, he trails off into fond memories of pranks, which then somehow results in him dragging Wash into an argument over what constitutes as “too far” and whether the answer to that can be summed up with: “Is it legal? Then it’s cool.”

By the time they actually get to work, they're both red in the face, and he’s so keyed up from Tucker purposely antagonizing him that he doesn’t realize what’s really happening until he’s shoved into the first random closet they come across, pinned to the only empty wall with a warm and willing body pressed against him.

They stop and stare at each other, eyes locked tight. Wash instantly becomes aware of the lack of distance between them, and the spark of anger fades and twists into something that’s heated in a new way, just as sharp and even more pointed, and aimed solely at the man in front of him: the one person that has always made his head spin and his stomach grow tight.

He feels that now as Tucker leans in and tilts his head to take the kiss. That tenseness that tightens up all his muscles in preparation. The familiar ache of a body that doesn’t want to keep still, but is so afraid of accidentally scaring someone away. Even his heart gets in on the game. In the few seconds it takes for their mouths to finally touch, his whole body lives and dies and lives again as his heart stops beating a thousand times, brought back to life only on the off chance that he’ll get what he’s been waiting for.

And Tucker delivers.

Their lips touch, setting off lights in Wash’s head. One of them inhales sharply at the first tentative touch, or maybe they both do, but either way it causes something to burst between them, and an urgency rises until they’re scrambling at each other, swiping away nearly every thought in Washington’s head.

All except one.

“Tell me,” Washington pants inbetween kisses. “Tell me that goading me into petty arguments hasn’t been your version of flirting all along.”

Tucker moans a distracted answer into Washington’s mouth. He’s just as eager now as he was yesterday in the bedroom, one leg pushing between Wash’s as the top half of his body rubs against and wrinkles Washington’s shirt.

The part of Wash’s brain that never stops thinking wonders what people will say about that when he leaves. But the other part—the one that’s keeping a close watch on the way Tucker’s hands linger as they slide over Washington’s hips —that part wants to move closer, to grind up against the body in front of him, to tear open buttons until they both feel nothing but skin and are forced to walk out of here with the evidence of what they did written all over them.

And they’ve only just now kissed for the first time.

But maybe this is what happens when you wait as long as they have. Maybe this is the natural result of so many years worth of pent of emotions and sexual tension. Maybe Tucker is right to be so desperately hungry. Maybe—

“Stop _thinking_ ,” Tucker growls.

Washington swallows hard. All he sees is Tucker’s brown eyes, now so much darker than they usually are and burning with something deeply intense and almost wild. His breath catches, and he finds himself unable to look away.

“ _Wash_ ,” Tucker says, lower now as their gazes steady and hold again. His right hand comes up, flits over cloth until it settles softly against Washington’s fast-beating pulse, thumb rubbing against the sensitive neck until Wash makes a high pitched whining sound in response.

It’s embarrassing, but Tucker kisses him again before he can pull away, then chases the flush down Washington’s throat, spreading wet, open mouthed pecks to the patch of skin opposite his hand. His breath is hot, _searing_ , forcing a groan out of Washington that seems far too loud, nearly causing him to forget where they are—

If only Sarge weren’t suddenly there to remind him.

“Knock it off, lovebirds,” the familiar voice grumbles from the other side of the door. “You may not be using it for anything that matters, but some of us need the closet for useful things...like planning an offensive against the enemy! And _you’re_ the enemy!”

While this speech is going on, a few things happen in quick succession.

  1. Tucker’s head snaps up in dismay, knocking hard into Washington's chin and causing them both to let out a tiny cry of pain.
  2. They fling themselves away from the other as a result, an act which leads to Tucker tripping over a random cardboard box on the floor and nearly spraining his ankle before Washington instinctively rights him.
  3. Their newfound closeness reminds them of what they just did, and they immediately start fumbling with clothes that are barely out of place at all, frantically attempting to fix them in an attempt to stop the rumors before they can start.



Wash looks at Tucker out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Tucker says.

“Nothing,” Washington replies. He hesitates, debating whether to finish the sentence, then remembers Sarge is outside the door and lowers his voice accordingly. “It's just...I would have thought you’d like people knowing about what just happened.”

“Oh, _hell yeah_ ,” Tucker agrees instantaneously. He stops trying to smooth out wrinkles with his palms. “I am all _about_ letting everyone know we hooked up in a closet at work. Seriously, the Walk of Shame is for people like Simmons.”

Washington struggles not to smile, which he can only assume is a result of endorphins since he doesn't find that comment amusing in the least. “We’re not telling anybody that. And we didn't hook up. We just kissed.”

“Yeah, but none of _them_ have to know that!” Tucker responds. He laughs at whatever look is on Washington’s face and reaches forward to hook a finger in the band of Wash’s pants, using it as leverage to tug him forward until they’re touching once again. “Dude, relax. It’s gonna be fine. I won’t say shit if you don’t want me to.”

“No, you won’t,” Wash says in warning. He wipes all trace of humor off his face and uses the few extra inches he has on Tucker to his advantage, forcing Tucker to tilt his head up if he wants to keep talking eye-to-eye. But Tucker just grins up at him with heavy lidded eyes, a constant reminder of what they were doing only seconds ago, and Wash’s lips start tingling with the memory and the want to continue.

“Wash…”

“No.”

“Waaaash,” Tucker tries again.

“We have work. And Sarge is _right outside._ ”

“Exactly, numbnuts!” Sarge interjects. “And I'm getting tired of you two canoodling in my base of operations!”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Washington snaps at the same time as Tucker, and in the exact same impatient tone of voice. They blink and then stare at each other, a smile crawling back on their faces. After a moment, Wash continues, speaking as he gently pushes Tucker away. “We have work. We can finish this at—”

“Lunchtime.”

Wash startles, unsure if he heard correctly. “What?”

“Let’s finish this at lunch,” Tucker says. His finger, the one crooked in Wash’s jeans, slips out as Tucker uses his hand to nervously rub at his own thigh. Despite that, his tone never wavers once, and the expression on his face is easy and confident all the while, even teasing. “C’mon. Let’s meet up at lunch and have a thing.”

Washington swallows hard. “A thing?” he echoes, remembering Tucker’s offer of a quickie not too long ago. All at once, the blood starts rushing to his head, and at this exact moment he can’t tell you which one. “Where—what kind of a thing?”

“I know a place,” Tucker tells him. “Away from all these assholes.”

“I—alright,” Washington says to his own surprise. His eyes fly open the second the words leave his mouth, but strangely, he doesn’t want to take them back. “Lunchtime, then. Just tell me where to meet once we’re—”

Not in Sarge’s earshot, he doesn’t say.

Tucker lights up immediately, smile transforming into that familiar beam that Wash has always been so fond of. “I’ll text you,” he promises, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then he stops, as if remembering something, and frowns abruptly. “Uh, later though. Shit. Kimball’s gonna kill me. I was supposed to be showing one of the new guys around R&D.”

Washington glances at his watch. “You’re only three minutes late,” he notes, a little disconcerted at his own discovery. They must have made good time through traffic. Either that or they haven't been in the closet nearly as long as it felt. “You’ll be fine. This is still earlier than you usually are.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I'm gonna pretend that was you being assuring and not you secretly sneaking in another lecture about the importance of showing up ten minutes early.”

“I’m more than capable of doing both,” Wash points out.

“Heh,” Tucker says. “Okay, but I've gotta get out of here either way, ‘cause she has a meeting with Doyle later on and I don't want her too pissed off when that happens.”

Especially since it’ll be Washington’s job to smooth things over if the meeting spirals too far out of control. Last time, they had to call him in less than ten minutes in, and the whole thing wound up taking so long that they were all forced to work straight through lunch.

Which is fine on a normal day, but today…

Today, Washington has plans, and he has no intention of skipping out on them.

“Go,” Wash says, jerking his head towards the door. It comes out rough, and Tucker does a double take, but but by some miracle he decides not to comment. He walks toward the closet door regardless, only stopping when Wash speaks up again in one last desperate attempt to make himself look normal. “...oh, and Tucker?”

Tucker stops with one hand on the knob. “Yeah, Wash?”

“Don’t be late for our meeting at lunchtime.”

There is a long, gratifying pause of sheer disbelief, and then the door opens and slams shut just as fast, angry muttering becoming increasingly muffled as Tucker makes his way down the hall.

But Washington only smirks.

He thinks he’s beginning to understand Tucker’s version of flirting after all.

* * *

 

Washington wants to think he manages to keep his mind on his work all morning long, but the truth is his thoughts stray to Tucker more often than not, aided by some sort of vast conspiracy to ensure he catches sight of the man in question at least once every couple of minutes.

Or at least it _feels_ that way.

In all honesty, seeing Tucker for the fourth time in a single morning might not be _common_ , but it's nowhere near approaching rare. Their jobs do tend to put them in the same locations, after all, and sometimes have them dealing with all the same people. But most of the time, Washington barely notices that Tucker’s there at all unless someone points him out. Today, though...

One minute he’s fending off complaints about the latest video from Ghanoush and McCallister making its way around the office, and the next he gets a glimpse of Tucker off in the distance. His sentence fades into nonsense as his eyes trail over strong thighs and a well-defined ass, fingers curling slightly as he imagines stalking over there and plastering their bodies together, brain mentally replaying Tucker’s low moan as he pictures squeezing firm flesh and grinding against it.

“I have to go,” Washington says stiltedly.

He leaves before Matthews or Palomo can respond, making his way toward the office he shares with Carolina without so much as another word, choosing to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator just to lessen his chances of having to talk to anyone.

Luckily, he doesn't bump into anybody on the way, and he makes it to the stairwell without problem, halting only a few feet from the entrance. He pauses, listening for any sign of trouble, but all he hears is the heavy door slamming shut behind him, the echoey sound bouncing off the ugly off-white walls and making it seem louder than it actually is.

The quiet afterwards is nice, however. It lets him rest for a couple of moments, and he leans against the top of the railing to catch his breath as he tries to deal with what just happened.

_Inhale. Exhale._

He _wants_ Tucker.

It's not a new feeling, not anymore, but even after all these years it's still new enough to surprise him. He personally understands wanting _sex_ —it’s enjoyable, like masturbation, and he’s always liked the pleasant feeling that comes from making someone feel good _—_ but wanting a _person_...actively desiring them...thinking about them, even _fantasizing_ about them…

That's different.

And he told Tucker before that he wanted to take his time.

At the time, it wasn't even an excuse. He _did_ want to take his time. He wanted to linger with this newfound desire, taking his time to explore it, spreading his palms and tongue over Tucker’s skin until every secret was mapped out thoroughly.

But now he understands the urgency, too.

It's the reason Washington keeps glancing at his watch. Even though it's incredibly distracting. Even though it will probably get him _fired_ if it keeps preventing him from doing his job…

He gets it.

He gets it, and he can't _wait_ to see Tucker again.

* * *

 

He regrets that whole train of thought approximately thirty minutes later, when he accidentally lets it slip over dumplings what he thought was _actually_ going to happen at lunch.

Tucker gapes unattractively. “Wait, are you serious?” he asks in an overly tragic way. “You mean I could have been getting laid in a meeting room this entire time and you didn't even tell me it was a possibility!?”

Tucker’s voice is a hair too loud for the mostly empty restaurant. Washington spares a brief moment in hope that by some miracle nobody heard, but that hope is destroyed when one of the nearby waiters snickers under their breath less than a second later.

Wash closes his eyes, pained beyond belief. “I hate you.”

“Psshh, yeah right,” Tucker replies. “Not only were you gonna bang me, you were totally gonna do it in a place where anyone could walk in on us.”

Washington opens his eyes again. He squints at Tucker, then decides not to comment on his choice of who would be bottoming. “I thought that's what you were offering,” he grudgingly explains.

“Oh man, I am _definitely_ offering—”

“ _Then_. I thought that's what you were offering _then_.”

“What?” Tucker stops and scrunches up his nose, clearly trying to recall their earlier conversation. “Nah, I was just…” He colors, looking embarrassed. “Well, _you know_. We just kissed and Sarge was fucking up our vibe and making things weird—”

An understatement, Wash admits.

“—and then it’s like it hit me, y’know? That we’ve never even been on a date even though we're pretty much living together and all that shit.”

Washington shifts uncomfortably. “We’re not living together,” he protests, something in him simultaneously balking and delighting at the words. “We’re just... _living_ _together_.”

Tucker jabs a finger in his direction. “Uh-uh, no way dude. I'm the one in this relationship who gets to be all weird about word choice and commitment and all that shit. I already called dibs like months ago!”

“We weren't dating months ago!”

“Shut up and eat a fucking dumpling, Wash!”

“...alright.”

Wash takes a bite and chews in silence, trying not to let the simmering discomfort take over once again. He focuses on the texture of the food, on the way his jaw is forced to work, tasting every single bite as if he were having it for the first time, just the way those self-help books taught him. He feels ridiculous, but he does it anyway. Anything to prevent that little voice in the back of his head from reminding him of the little fact he was ignoring while he was too busy focusing on how he got the whole outing completely wrong. Otherwise, he’ll feel off-balance in addition to feeling like a fool.

But he can’t forget. Not when it’s wrapped up in why he feels like a fool in the first place.

Because for the first time in a long time, Washington is on a _date_.

And it’s not like it’s completely strange. Despite his friends’ occasional jokes and the worried comments he gets to hear whenever he talks to his parents, Washington _does_ have experience with dates. Not all of it eager or even wanted, but experience nonetheless. But still, it’s not often he winds up on a date with someone he’s actually interested in, and the more he thinks about that, the more he starts to wish he had time to prepare for this one.

This was so much easier when he just thought they were going to sleep with each other.

“What’s with your face?” Tucker says out of nowhere. It startles Washington, knocking him out of his thoughts, and when he focuses, it’s to the sight of Tucker making a strange face of his own, though his is more amused than anything else. “It’s doing this weird twitchy cringey thing, like you pulled a muscle or something.”

“Nothing,” Wash says, even as he feels his face do that twitchy cringey thing again. He clears his throat and quickly moves on to something else. “So what’s next for Junior? Are you going to continue with yoga or do you have another idea?”

Tucker brightens and opens his mouth to answer, then just as quickly stops and shuts it, doing it so fast that Washington stops reaching for his drink and narrows his eyes.

“What?” Wash asks suspiciously.

“...I’ll tell you later?” Tucker tries.

“ _Tucker_ …”

“It’s nothing bad!” Tucker assures him, both hands flying up as if to protect himself. He smiles, and surprisingly it doesn’t seem as though he’s actually lying. “Look, don’t worry about it, okay? Or about Junior. I just wanna do the date thing now.”

Washington’s lip twists downward, but he hides it with a sip of his drink. He wishes he had gotten a beer, but he barely knew was he was ordering when they first arrived, still too thrown by the turn of events to concentrate on what was happening. Now he’s stuck with a bottle of herbal tea he doesn’t even like and no way to move the conversation back to safer topics.

Thankfully, Tucker is more up to the task. When Wash doesn't instantly start talking again, Tucker begins rambling (in much a much, much, more quiet tone, with vague deference to confidentiality) about something he saw the labs testing out today: a device that actually stores things in subspace to be used at a later time and/or location.

The lab techs were using them to have mock _Pokémon_ battles with the interns.

“Please tell me that means the interns were trainers and not that they were the pokémon,” Washington says wearily, his mind already making a mental list of all the laws they're potentially breaking.

“Uh…” Tucker says. “They looked like they were having fun?”

Washington buries his head in the palm of a hand.

Tucker just laughs and reaches over to push his hand to the side. “Calm down,” he says, as if that’ll do a damn thing to stop him from freaking out. “Everyone’s fine! Except for Cunningham. He went up against Jensen, which is just stupid. Everyone knows fighting types are better than ice.”

Washington will have to take his word for it, since his limited knowledge of _Pokémon_ comes entirely from conversations with Junior. Though, come to think about it, that's probably where Tucker’s knowledge comes from as well. _Pokémon_ isn't exactly up his alley, after all; he prefers games like _Halo_ and _Call of Duty_ , while occasionally dipping into the odd Bioware game for good measure _,_ because he not so secretly likes being able to have sex with fictional characters.

But Tucker also gets a fierce and all-encompassing joy in taking interest in the things his son cares most about, and that often means learning smaller details that others might miss. Not only can Tucker rattle off a list of Junior’s favorite songs and shows and games, but he listens to Junior so thoughtfully that he can probably do the same for all of Junior’s closest friends.

It's one of those things that Washington has always took note of: the way Tucker throws himself into caring the way BASE jumpers throw themselves off a cliff. There are no half measures involved; Tucker either doesn't do it or he does it without hesitation. He either cares too little or he cares too much. And then, just to drive the point home, he makes sure everyone knows how he feels.

About most things, anyway. With some things, he could stand to be a little more open.

Tucker suddenly shakes his head, a sharp and disbelieving jerk of the head that’s far less distracting than the bright smile that bursts on his face.  “Oh my god! Are you really getting all warm and fuzzy at the thought of Jensen taking Cunningham down?”

Wash blinks hard, confusion wrapping around him like a thick fog. Tucker’s words don't register at first, and then, when they do, he can scarcely believe his ears. “What?” he asks flatly, just as he figures out just happened. “You think I—”

“I mean, I know you and her bonded or whatever when you taught that women's self-defense course, but seriously, anyone could have taken Cunningham out. There are teenagers bigger than him!”

“I wasn't...”

“Suuure,” Tucker replies.

“I wasn’t thinking about Jensen!” Washington finishes in exasperation. He won't say what he _was_ thinking about, but that doesn't mean he has to allow Tucker to continue to make fun of him. “If anything, I was thinking about the number of reports HR will have by the time we get back.”

Tucker scoffs. “You can't report people to HR for letting you play _Pokémon_ during work hours,” he says with confidence, and for a good long minute Wash actually debates whether or not Tucker really believes what he is saying.

Washington squints, staring at the other man for a sign, then finally noticing the glint in Tucker's eye. “You're fucking with me,” he says in relief.

“Yup.”

They look at each other, Tucker with a familiar shit-eating grin on his face, and Washington with an equally familiar mix of fondness and mild aggravation in his soul, both holding the other’s gaze for far too lengthy a span of time, and in a way that should be really be considered awkward.

But it's not awkward, not in the slightest, and Washington finds himself half-rising out of his seat to lean over the table. His already wrinkled dress shirt pushes into his plate and probably stains, but he barely notices, as in a daze, he reaches over and wraps a hand behind Tucker’s head, using it as leverage to tug them closer until their mouths meet for yet another time that day.

They part again, but only for a second, and only far enough to take a quick breath before they tilt their heads and readjust. And it's nice, because without the pulse and pressure and intensity of before, Wash can taste the sweetness between them. He can feel how soft and full Tucker's lips are, can swipe his tongue across the crease in open invitation and then back away before Tucker can give in, leaving with a gentle nip at the lower lip as both a tease and apology.

“Uh,” Tucker says, looking vaguely stunned when they both settle back in their seats. “Whoa! What was that for?”

And Washington could talk about how bad at dating he is again. He could talk about how sex is easier than sexual attraction. How romance is more confusing than both. And then, he could talk about Tucker messing with him and how it made him feel. The normality of it; how relieved he was to be so annoyed, to know a date could be a lot like bickering, could feel a lot like friendship, like home.

But he doesn't say any of that. Instead, he says this:

“No real reason. I just wanted to.”

And that, in its own way, is just as truthful.

* * *

 

Washington holds Tucker’s hand as he lets the car drive them home at the end of the day. Almost everyone they know would call it sickeningly sweet, and Wash would be inclined to agree if it weren't for the sheer number of times Tucker’s hand finds its way into his lap.

At one point, Tucker’s head tries to get in on the game as well, but Washington firmly puts the brakes on that one until they're in a place where there's no chance of arrest. They're admittedly both a little disappointed at the decision, but less and less with every passing minute after Wash takes Tucker’s hand and returns it to where it had been moments prior.

By the time Tucker tells him to disengage the autopilot and stop off in a parking lot, Wash is in no position to leave the car, a fact Tucker takes note of with a proud and lascivious look.

“Don't worry,” Tucker says breezily. “I can handle it on my own.” He stops, then smirks and winks at Wash. “In fact, I can handle a lot of things. But I guess you already knew that, right? Bow chika bow wow!”

Instead of answering, Washington leans back into his seat and runs his hand slowly up his body as he splays his legs, showing himself off even more for Tucker’s open appreciation.

Tucker's eyes widen, then squeeze tightly shut. “Fuck! Okay, shit! Don't do that when I can't blow you, dude,” he begs fervently. “Especially when I’m about to go into a store and shit to go get Junior something. I don't want people calling me a pervert.”

Washington frowns and immediately straightens up, all hint of teasing leaving him in an instant. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn't know that's why we were stopping.”

Tucker blinks. “Wha—nah, it's cool dude. I was just kidding, anyway. I mean, mostly. Well, not about blowing you. I never joke about shit like that. But all that other stuff? Yeah.”

Wash relaxes a bit at that. “You mean you were joking about not wanting to be seen as a pervert?” he says wryly. “That's fine. I think you're a decade too late for that anyway.”

“Oh, _nice_ ,” Tucker tells him, complete with an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes. “See if I get you anything while I'm in there.”

The words, “I doubt it's the kind of store that sells handcuffs” slip out before Washington can stop them, and he watches with a sort of horrified realization as the expression of glee on Tucker’s face grows exponentially with every passing second.

“You—” Tucker starts.

“No,” Washington replies. “Just...go.”

He winces as he turns away to look out the window, just as hyperaware of his newly burning cheeks as he is in tightness in his groin and the fact that Tucker is staring at him with naked interest.

“Seriously—”

“Nnnnope,” Wash tells him.

“But—handcuffs!” Tucker protests, and for that Wash sends him a glare so fierce that by all rights it should have him shaking in his shoes. Instead, it has a different reaction. “Ohhhkay, fuck! Math! Math, math, math! Caboose, Church, Grif— _ugh_ , Sarge!”

Wash stares at him, completely mystified. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Tucker shoots back. “Trying to keep my dick down!”

“We have to pick Junior up in less than twenty minutes.”

“Aaand the dick’s down,” Tucker says instantly. He opens the car door and starts to get out, stopping halfway through just to send a single scowl and a very important message to Washington. “Dude, don't ever mention my kid when I've got a hard-on again.”

“Noted,” Washington says. And that's that.

He waits in the car while Tucker gets whatever toy or game he has planned to surprise Junior with, spending the first few moments utilizing Tucker’s tactic to get himself fully back under control. By the time Tucker shows up a short time later, he’s humming tunelessly along with the radio to something by TLC, and there's no sign that he was ever worked up about anything.

“You're not fooling anyone by listening to this,” Tucker says as he settles down in his seat and slams the car door shut. “Me and Junior already figured out your dark secret about bouncy music when we looked through your stuff.”

Then he drops his package carelessly at his feet and twists to put his seat belt on, which is funny, considering he made them both take their seat belts off earlier because it was apparently making the dangerous not-quite-car-sex they were engaging in so much less sexy.

Wash is about to open his mouth and...lie, maybe, or attempt to make a snarky comment about Tucker's own taste in music—when Tucker surprises him by glancing over and frowning.

“What are you doing? Buckle up.”

Wash blinks. “What?”

Tucker rolls his eyes as obnoxiously as possible. “Buckle your fucking seat belt, dude. I'm already living with you, okay?” he points out. “I sure as fuck can't help you pay your hospital bills if we crash.”

“It's nice to know you care,” Washington says dryly.

Tucker huffs, but he's smiling. “Hey, I can't make out with you if you're in a coma right? We’re not _Sleeping Beauty_ -ing this shit. I already told you I'm not a pervert.”

Washington stops himself before he can speak, and to his knowledge, doesn't give a single outward sign that he was ever going to say anything at all. Unfortunately, Tucker senses it anyway.

“What?”

He busies himself with his seatbelt. “Nothing.”

Tucker frowns. “No, seriously, what?”

“I didn't say anything,” Washington says calmly. And he doesn’t _mean_ to say anything, not about something he only just consciously noticed himself. But Tucker scowls and leans forward like he's preparing for a fight, and as always, the promise of an argument with him has Wash saying yet another thing he doesn't intend to. “It's just...you only ever talk about making out with me."

Tucker doesn't look taken aback so much as he looks completely and utterly baffled in every way, as if Washington has suddenly started speaking a foreign language, or, even more puzzlingly, ripped his face off to reveal that he was secretly a giant talking cat from Mars the entire time.

Tucker blinks, and blinks, and blinks some more, and finally ends the silence by asking Washington a single question:

“What the _fuck_?”

Washington looks forward and starts the car.

They don't talk again until they pick Junior up from his friend’s house, not unless you count the random “what the _fuck_!?” outbursts that Tucker keeps making to be a sort of one-sided conversation. Then Junior jumps in the back seat and they fill the car up with questions about his day and singalongs to the few songs on the radio Junior has heard of, and that fills their time until they're back at the apartment complex.

In fact, it's almost enough to convince Wash they're done talking about it at all for the night, and he's already managed to persuade himself that the only argument he’ll have that night will be with himself, later when he's in his bed and he’s convincing himself he inadvertently ruined things by taking the relationship talk too fast too soon.

Tucker, however, isn't done talking, though he waits until they're in the elevator to make that clear. “Your last birthday,” he mutters somewhat intensely as he jabs the button for their floor. Not angry enough to alarm Junior, Wash notices, but still annoyed enough to make it clear he's still upset.

Both Wash and Junior startle at the non sequitur.

“Huh?” Junior says, peering up in confusion.

Tucker turns to Junior and doesn't ever stray his gaze away. “That's when I figured out I was hardcore into your Uncle Wash,” he says in a casual voice. “When he ate that gross ass cake Caboose made just so he wouldn't feel bad.”

Washington freezes.

Junior, who has probably figured a few things out already after witnessing Wash and Tucker cuddling on the couch, merely responds by wrinkling his nose at the memory. “It had blue ketchup for icing,” he notes with an expression of distaste on his face.

“I know, dude,” Tucker says, all the while peeking at Wash out of the corner of his eye. “It tasted like shit.”

Junior nods emphatically. “ _I_ didn't eat it.”

“That's because you're smart. Like, _way_ smarter than Uncle Wash. I keep telling him that he never gets things that are super obvious to everyone else, but he never believes me.”

Wash clears his throat. “I think I'm starting to.

Tucker turns to look at him fully. “Yeah?”

He manages a crooked, but earnest grin. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Tucker says. And the smile he delivers to Wash in that moment in so bright that it's almost incandescent.

* * *

 

After that, Wash escapes to the kitchen as soon as he can in hopes that he will stop making a fool out of himself. It's a relief to get some privacy, some time to himself, especially after the small walk to the apartment that felt like an eternity. In that time, he attempted to steal a thousand glances that got him caught every time, and every locked gaze left him feeling caught out and vulnerable, like his heart was in danger on his sleeve when it should have been locked up tight in his chest where it was safe.

Wash takes a deep breath. Altogether, today has been a mess of emotions. But making dinner is something he can handle. It won't be much; just a simple spaghetti with a store-bought sauce, but it’ll get them through the night without a problem, though Junior will undoubtedly be disappointed at the lack of meatballs. He’ll have to make due with a mountain of parmesan on top instead—or “stinky cheese” as he's been calling it since he was four.

The sauce gets dumped into a pot and left to heat up while the water in the other pot boils. After thinking about it, he doesn't succumb to laziness wholeheartedly, and starts digging through his cabinet for things to punch up the flavor. Basil gets thrown in the sauce, along with some oregano, parsley and thyme, and only then does he go to sit at the table until he can put the pasta in.

Finally, he can relax. Except…

The kitchen is too quiet with just him in it. Even the faint murmur of Junior and Tucker talking in the other room feels too far away right now. Like the voices belong to another family in another apartment, and not to people who share meals and laughter with him on a regular basis. It leaves him feeling a bit uneasy and even more on edge, and he doesn't understand that strange twisting emotion in his stomach until it finally registers in his brain as longing.

“ _Oh_ ,” Wash says.

He doesn't really want to be alone. He’d rather be with the others, even if it means continuing to make a fool of himself. Even if it means making himself vulnerable and open and other perilous things.

Oh, indeed.

* * *

 

Junior does in fact wind up dumping a ton of parmesan onto his spaghetti, as does Tucker, who is almost certainly where he got the love for it from. Washington smiles as he watches them do it; their tongues stick out the corner of their mouths when they shake the bottle over their plate, just the sort of minor detail he finds himself noticing more and more often the longer they live with him.

Unlike Junior, Wash didn't inherit anything from his own father except for his last name. The rest—the darkness of his hair (now dyed blond) and the color of his eyes, his fondness for cheerful music, even the way he insists on keeping things clean and organized—that comes from his mother, a Japanese-Brazilian immigrant with a love for IKEA who participates in drum circles at the park on weekends.

“Okay,” Tucker says when he and Junior are done drowning their pasta in cheese. He picks up his fork and stabs it in his noodles, then begins twirling it somewhat nervously. “So, Junior. I kinda have a surprise for you. I mean, you're gonna have to wait until after dinner to open it, but I think you're gonna like it.”

“Okay,” Junior says, sounding completely disinterested.

Bemused, Wash looks back to Junior for an explanation, and finds him trying to eat what must be close to his entire plate of pasta all at once, somehow balanced onto one tiny fork. The sauce stains Junior’s mouth and cheeks as he attempts to inhale it, getting everywhere as strings of spaghetti slip back onto the plate that Junior is thankfully still hovering over.

Tucker does a double take. “Junior. Dude. You're not a Hoover. Eat right.”

Junior scowls and drops his forkful of spaghetti with a splatter of sauce, then picks up a napkin and wipes his wet face with it without being asked. “I wasn't being a vacuum,” he explains with a frown. “I was practicing!”

“For _what?_ ” Tucker asks.

“Umm,” Junior replies. “For a hot dog challenge?”

Tucker pauses, then glances at Washington with a furrowed brow. They trade a confused look and a unspoken conversation, until Tucker turns back to Junior and guesses, “What, like an eating contest?”

“Yup!” Junior says proudly. “My friend Hector’s uncle won a hot dog contest and got five thousand dollars.”

“Oh, shit!” Tucker says with a laugh. He winks at Wash from across the table.  “I think we found Grif’s true calling in life. Even if he loses, he wins.”

“Uh-huh,” Junior agrees. “And if I win one, we could move into a new place.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Washington’s throat clicks audibly as he swallows hard. Tucker stops mid-nod, face frozen in an unreadable expression. Junior is the only one that seems unaffected, and that's only because he's staring down at his plate with a crafty look, clearly attempting to figure out a way to practice eating without getting in further trouble with his father.

After a moment, though, he does look up, and is greeted by two very different but equally stunned faces. “Um,” Junior begins, panic flitting through his eyes. He quickly hides his fork underneath his napkin. “Um, yeah?”

Tucker seems incapable of speaking, so Washington takes over. “Is—are you…” he starts, then stops abruptly, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Are you unhappy here? Are you sure you want to leave? “You two are…”

“...welcome to stay as long as you want,” is how he's _about_ to finish, when Tucker cuts in with a far too harsh: “I just don't want us to have a shitty apartment.”

Wash's head jerks up. “Wha—”

Tucker doesn't look his way. “Look, when we have enough money that I can buy us a bunch of furniture and stuff so our place won't be empty, that's when we’ll move outta here, okay? I promise. You can count on me.”

Junior’s eyes dart over to Wash, then back to Tucker’s. “Really?”

Tucker nods.

Wash’s body is so cold in that moment, almost aching from the bitterness as he feels the familiar bite of loneliness already trying to creep back in where it isn't wanted. But still, the relief on Junior’s face is impossible for anyone to ignore. Guilt rushes through him, thawing him out, and the warmth of his own affection keeps him going when otherwise he would have given up.

He leans forward, and though he's never been very good at comfort, he gentles his voice and tells Junior kindly, “If there's anything I can do to make you feel more at home until then…”

Tucker makes a face, albeit half-heartedly. “You sound like you're talking to a seventy year old.”

Washington shoots him a dirty look.

Junior unsuccessfully bites back a small smile at that. He ducks his head, however, when Wash keeps gazing at him in search of an answer, worry seeping into his expression as time goes by. Finally, he speaks.

“It's ‘cause of the ghost,” Junior blurts out. His shoulders inch up when everyone stares at him again. “That's why we have to move.”

“Uh,” Tucker says.

The rest comes out all at once.

“Hector’s big brother said that ‘cause that lady died when she started the fire, she's probably a ghost now. And she's probably gonna follow me around a lot. But he says if we move a lot it’ll get confused for a little while. So we have to move or she'll start another fire!”

A long pause ensues, filled with a great deal of emotion. Junior’s anxious eyes flit over the two adults as they sit there holding in all their protectiveness, all their fierceness and their righteous indignation, preventing it from exploding outward in full view of someone who won't understand it.

Finally, Washington inhales deeply. He takes in air, dragging in self-control and patience along with it, and then lets out the rage, leaving only a small gasp of justified anger within him. And then he tells Tucker, very calmly, “I think you need to have a talk with Hector's guardian.”

Tucker pulls out his phone without another word.

* * *

 

Later, when all is said and done, Junior receives an only slightly begrudging apology from Hector’s brother Claude, whose aunt drives him over the instant she finds out what he did. She's visibly furious in a way that's gratifying, and while the apology might be lackluster it's clear from Claude’s expression that he knows _exactly_ how much trouble he's in.

Even Junior seems sympathetic as he watches the other boy trudge out as slowly as he can in an effort to put off whatever punishment he'll soon be getting, though that could be because he doesn't entirely seem to understand or believe what's going on or just why everyone's so upset.

“Was he really lying?” Junior asks as they sit on the couch afterwards. He peers up at them with a look of doubt, uncertainty coming through in the way that he gnaws on his lower lip and hunches over, arms curling around his body as if to protect himself from the truth. “About everything?”

Tucker immediately reaches out to comfort. He pulls Junior in and smooths a hand over the boy’s dark hair, allowing the soft touch to spread downward until he’s rubbing soothing circles across Junior’s back. Washington, on the other side of Tucker, has a strong and sudden urge to give them privacy, but that inner voice is easy to quiet when he can _feel_ the tension in Tucker, the anger the man only hid away. Instead, he plucks up his courage and wraps an arm around Tucker’s shoulder, locking all three of them in place in one giant embrace.

Tucker relaxes in increments and leans back into his arms. “Yeah, you heard him,” he tells Junior frankly, if not without sympathy. “He made all that shit up just to fuck with you.”

Junior frowns. “But what about the stuff I _saw_?”

Tucker hesitates, and Wash can see in him an unwillingness to flat out say that Junior was just letting his imagination run away with him. It doesn't matter if it's true or not;  the ghosts were real to Junior, and that’s more important than whether or not Claude was lying. Tucker might be blunt, and he might be tactless, but he would never be so dismissive of his son’s feelings and fears that he would outright say something like that.

Besides, if Tucker’s childhood was anything like Washington’s was, he remembers being scared, and he remembers how it feels when adults refuse to listen to you when you’re afraid of being hurt. Ghosts may not be the same as bullies, but he suspects the same rules apply.

Tucker thinks for another few seconds, then takes a deep breath and huffs it out in a quick burst. “Well, okay, you know how sometimes you watch a scary movie or tv show and you start thinking there are bad guys everywhere?”

Junior squints, but slowly nods.

Tucker’s shoulder relaxes minutely. “Okay, cool. Yeah. Okay. So like, yeah, you know there _are_ real bad guys out there, but after a few weeks that weird guy who always hangs out in the cereal aisle of the supermarket starts to seem like a regular weird guy and not like the kind of dude who has bodies in his basement, right?”

“I guess?” Junior says.

Washington tilts his head, wondering where Tucker is going with this.

“Cool,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “But like, _sometimes_ , you hear on the news later that someone got attacked, and you’re like, ‘Fuck, I know that guy! It’s the dude who always eats Lucky Charms out of the box while staring down Tony the Tiger!”

Washington buries his head in his free hand.

“So I guess my point is—”

“You _have_ a point?” Wash mutters into his palm.

Tucker ignores him and twists around until he’s facing Junior fully, then lifts both hands onto Junior’s shoulders, holding them firmly in his grasp. “My point is...my point is...if you know Claude was lying, but you also know that you saw some shit. Then...what do you want to do to feel, y’know, like, _safe_ in here?”

Washington lifts his head.

They watch Junior together, gazing at him as he thinks it over with a gravity that seems far beyond his years, eyes flitting back and forth as he attempts to come up with a plan. Surprisingly, he takes his time with it, and Tucker and Washington let him do it, until a full ten minutes have passed before the boy finally speaks again.

“Um,” Junior says. “Um. I tried, uh.” He halts, bites his lip and tries again. “In the movie, Norman talked to the ghost because she was angry she died and was hurting people. So I tried talking to the ghost this morning.”

“That sounds pretty smart,” Washington says, speaking for the first time.

Junior’s startled eyes turn to his. “Really?”

Wash nods.

Junior brightens, the continues on with a newfound confidence. “I thought it might work! And I brought the squeeze bottle with the holy water just in case.” His shoulders slump. “But I don’t think she was there.”

Tucker jumps back into the conversation now that they have a plan. “Oh, hey! That’s probably because you tried to talk to it during the morning! Right? Like, don’t ghosts only come out during the night?”

Junior frowns. “Not in the movie…”

Tucker winces at his own slip up. “Okay, but a lot of ghosts like the nighttime better, though,” he says hastily. He shoots a quick, pointed glare at Wash to back him up, and Washington complies with a fervent nod. “See? Wash knows all about this stuff. Just ask him.”

Junior immediately does so, which means Washington can’t even shoot Tucker a glare of his own for getting him involved with this particular lie. Wash struggles to keep his face blank. “You...you mostly saw activity during the night, didn’t you?” he points out, catching onto something fairly quickly.

“Yeah!” Tucker insists. “So that means she only hangs out around then. So if you’re gonna pick a time to talk to her, it’s gotta be in the middle of the night when you’re supposed to be asleep. Like, I dunno, two or three o’clock?”

Tucker and Washington are both  just throwing thoughts out, but Junior pounces on the idea instantaneously as soon as Tucker finishes speaking.

“Can we do it tonight!?” he asks eagerly.

Tucker startles. “Uh...I mean. You kinda have to go to school tomor—”

Junior’s face takes on that pleading, bambi-eyed look that only children are capable of managing. “Pleaaase? I promise I won’t be tired. And I’ll wake up tomorrow and I won’t sleep in class. And I’ll finish all my homework. And I won’t complain about—”

“Whoa, okay!” Tucker says with a short laugh. “I, uh. I guess we’re doing this tonight.”

And then he glances at Washington, expression holding a question that Washington doesn’t understand for a good long while. It’s expectant, but also hesitant, with a hint of exasperation as time goes by without an answer.

“Oh!” Wash says, blinking rapidly as he gets it. Warmth spreads through him, the pleasant feeling of being included doing a small part in staving off that voice that’s been telling him he’s been intruding all this time. “Yes. Of course. I’ll be there.”

The inner voice speaks up again, reminding him of one very important thing.

“That is, if it’s okay with Junior.”

Junior sits up straight, reacting as if he’s just received an electric shock. “ _Yeah_ ,” he blurts out, as if it should have been obvious that he wanted Wash around. “You’re really strong! You can help if the ghost attacks!”

“See? You were being an idio—hey, wait! What about me!?”

Junior freezes guiltily. “Umm…”

Washington bites back a smile.

“Dude!” Tucker says indignantly. “The next words out of your mouth better be, ‘You’re the baddest motherfucker out there and you could take on any ghost that tried to fuck with us!’”

“Umm,” Junior says again, purposely being vague if the mischievous look he sends his father is any indication. Tucker responds in a way that has Junior grinning with glee—words loud, body language over the top, and with such incredible indignation that everyone watching is left laughing in response.

“Junior, what the _fuck_!?”

Washington removes his arm from Tucker’s shoulder and leans back enough that he’s no longer in danger of getting smacked in the face by an accidental flapping hand. “Don’t worry, Tucker,” he says sardonically, “I’m sure you could take on any ghost...”

“That's what I'm saying!”

“...after I’ve already done most of the work.”

Tucker gapes, then barely manages to spit out. “Fuck. You.”

And Junior? Junior hides a giggle behind his hand, looking completely and utterly at ease, secure in the fact that they’ve not only got a new plan, but that he has two people willing and raring to take on a fire-starting ghost just to keep him safe.

Washington isn’t a seven-year-old boy anymore, but if he were one, and in Junior’s shoes, he likes to think he’d be feeling pretty good right about now.

* * *

 

The rest of the evening comes and goes as usual.

The surprise present that Tucker bought earlier—a 2DS to replace the one lost in the fire, plus a brand new game that Junior’s been wanting since he first saw people play it online—makes Junior quietly ecstatic, and proves to be a welcome distraction until it's time for sleep.

Then, Junior puts up a fight.

“You said you'd let me stay up,” he says accusingly.

“Nooo,” Tucker replies. “I said I'd let you try to talk to the ghost at three. I never said I’d let you stay up all night long when you have school tomorrow. That's a _totally_ different thing.”

As that sinks in, Junior's face falls in increments, slowly shifting from accusatory to disappointed before landing on the sort of disconsolate pain of someone who’s been backstabbed by a close family member.

Wash has to turn away, surprised at how uncomfortable the overly dramatic look of betrayal makes him feel. “We’ll make sure to wake you up at the right time,” he assures Junior without ever turning his gaze from the tv.

Tucker pats Washington’s thigh in approval. “See? Don't worry about it,” he tells Junior. “Just go take a bath and get ready for bed and we’ll all work on getting some sleep before we have to get up in the middle of the night. Cool?”

“Cool,” Junior says reluctantly.

And that's that. Junior goes off, leaving Wash and Tucker behind to finish cleaning up the mess from dinner, though Tucker seems distracted throughout. First he accidentally throws a knife away when scraping the remains of the food into the garbage, forcing him to go digging through the trash to reclaim it, and then he's so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn't hear Wash call his name until the third time it’s said.

Tucker shakes it off. “Uh, what?”

“I asked if you wanted to wash or dry,” Washington replies. He waggles the cloth in his hand to draw Tucker’s attention to it, hoping that will get the conversation back on track.

“Uh, ” Tucker says. “I guess dry?”

Washington nods, and they settle in to do just that.

Technically, he doesn't need the help—he has he has a draining board after all, a fact Tucker frequently pointed out before this became part of their routine—but he likes having the company at the end of the day. It's not intimate in the same way a kiss sometimes is, but it's nicer in a way just to have Tucker close to him, doing shared chores in their shared (if temporary) home together.

He frowns, suddenly reminded for the second time that night that Tucker and Junior won't be living here forever.

“Will you…” Washington starts. He stops for a second to think and reword his sentence, allowing his hands to work on autopilot as they scrub away the red stains from a plate. “When do you think you’ll be able to move out?”

Tucker snorts. “What, are you kicking us out now?”

“No!” Wash exclaims. “I was only—”

“Fuck, calm down,” Tucker says. He takes the plate that Wash just rinsed off and begins drying it. “I was only kidding. Besides, you heard what I said; it's not gonna be until I save some money up. So I guess you're stuck with us.”

But despite how casual he sounds, Tucker’s eyes still dart towards Washington’s for a brief moment, looking for confirmation that that’ll be okay.

Wash, in turn, gives it to him with a nod, silently reaffirming that they're welcome to stay in his apartment for as long as they need. He watches as Tucker's shoulders slump in relief, wondering at the tension in them he thought had fled a while ago.

“Are you alright?” Wash asks hesitantly. “You seem…”

Tuckers back stiffens. “Seem like what?”

Washington watches him for some time. Then, after a few seconds, he reaches out and cuts off the faucet, letting the dishrag in his hand fall to the sink with a wet plop. “You know, I don't have to be stuck with you,” he tells Tucker, regretting his choice of words the second they're out his mouth.

Tucker stares at him in disbelief.

“Wait!” Washington says, one hand flying up in the classic _halt_ sign. “That's not what I meant.”

“I sure as fuck hope not!” Tucker exclaims.

Wash winces, unable to even defend himself. “It came out wrong,” he admits. “I just meant that it might be best if you and Junior left—”

Tucker promptly throws the dish towel at his face. “Dude, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you? Are you _trying_ to be a dick!?”

“No!” Washington says. He grabs the towel before it falls to the floor, then throws it onto the kitchen counter before taking a single step forward to grab Tucker’s arm when he scowls and tries to back away. “Tucker, if you would just wait a second…”

“For what, you to order us to start packing?” Tucker says belligerently. “Seriously, dude, you couldn't even wait five minutes to change your mind!? We haven't even finished the fucking dishes and you're already—”

“I'm not trying to kick you out,” Washington tries to say again. He feels a twinge of impatience, but does his best to ignore it. “Tucker, I just—I was only—”

Tucker crosses his arms. “Spit it out already.”

“I could loan you some money,” Washington blurts out.

Tucker rocks back on his heels, visibly stunned.

“For the apartment,” he explains unnecessarily, feeling painfully awkward in the silence that follows. His heart stutters, then goes back to beating in time, and he's left wondering what the hell that was about. “And for Junior.”

“For Junior?” Tucker echoes.

“If he can't stay here. If you have to move.”

Tucker stares at him with an impassive expression. “You think I can afford to keep moving around just because he's afraid of ghosts?”

“He might feel better with a bit of stability,” Washington points out, because he's been thinking about that since Junior mentioned wanting to leave. “With his own room. Some privacy. A place to relax completely. You probably won't have to move more than once.”

Tucker’s crossed arms tighten. “And if we just wanna stay here until I have enough money to do myself?”

“Then I could help pay for therapy in the meantime.”

Finally, there's a crack in the blank wall in front of him. Tucker swallows hard, something lost and almost vulnerable glinting in his eyes before he shoves it away. “Wash...c’mon,” he chokes out wetly, “you're already letting us live here rent-free…”

“I know,” Wash says.

“And you're paying way more than your share of the groceries. Don't think I don't know about that shit.”

“It's fine,” Wash tells him with complete honesty. “I can afford it.”

“Wash—”

“Tucker,” Washington cuts in, surprising himself when he finds he’s smiling. “I said it's fine. Besides, you're my family. Both of you.” And here he hesitates, just for a second. “And you said I was yours.”

“You are,” Tucker rushes to say.

“Then I’d like to help,” Wash says, certain that Tucker will say no or get angry or anything else that he's well within his rights to do, especially considering how upset he was at finding out the source of Junior’s nightmares. “I know I should have waited for things to calm down to offer, or even to see where Junior’s idea takes us, but—”

“Okay,” Tucker says suddenly.

Wash jolts. “Okay?”

Tucker flashes a glimpse of imperfect, slightly crooked off-white teeth. Not movie star magical, not model flawless, but a stunning smile nonetheless. And Washington, who has always liked it, remembers in that moment that he doesn’t have to keep it to himself anymore; that he can say it if he wants to, and spill the beans, finally admitting that it's one of his favorite things to see.

Instead, he keeps it a secret just a little bit longer.

They’ve talked about their feelings enough for one day.

* * *

 

Wash is awakened by his alarm going off at fifteen minutes to three o’clock. He lays there, still and quiet, straining his ears to see if he can hear anyone else up in the next room, but there's no hint of even the faintest murmur to tell him whether or not they’re awake.

But then, even if Tucker has set his own alarm, odds are he’ll have slept through it...and the second alarm, and the third. He's trained himself not to wake up until at least the fourth, and not even an enthusiastic Junior will be able to get him up before then.

Washington, however, has other tricks.

Junior is still wiping the sleep from his eyes when Wash enters the room. Not enough time has passed for him to get annoyed with his father yet, but he listens to Washington’s plan eagerly anyway, eyes bright and filled with interest in the dim glow cast by the nightlight next to the bed.

“Can I do it?” Junior asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Wash responds. “Yes, you can.”

And with one quick trip to the kitchen later, Junior has a full glass of cold water in his grasp. He muffles his laughter as Tucker lays there unawares, one hand shoved tightly against his mouth while the other poises overtop his father's head, ready to spill the contents at a moment's notice.

“Ready?” Wash says.

Junior throws the water in Tucker's face.

Then, in an _instant_ , he hides the cup behind his back and blurts out, “it wasn't me!” as Tucker flies up in a rush of flailing limbs and sputtering curses, yelping out the denial in such a way that makes it completely obvious that he's the one who actually did it.

Tucker’s too disoriented to notice—not that he wouldn't pin the blame squarely on Washington if he wasn't—but Wash palms the cup away from Junior anyway, sneaking it into his hands when Tucker isn't looking.

“Time to get up,” Washington says, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

It takes a few seconds for Tucker’s brain to catch up, but eventually it does. “Wash,” he growls in a voice so low that it makes some previously unknown but still embarrassing part of Washington’s mind sit up and take notice, “did you just _throw_ _water on me_ while I was sleeping?”

Washington clears his throat, fumbles slightly with the glass in his hand, then puts it down on the bedside table. “It's almost three,” he manages to say, while _also_ noticing that Tucker went to sleep without a shirt. “We should get started if we want to give ourselves enough time to get back to sleep.”

“Sleep!?” Tucker says, going from a grumble to shrill cry so quickly that it has to be hurting his voice. He scowls over at Wash. “And where am I gonna sleep, the fucking wet spot!?”

A beat.

Washington doesn't say a word.

Then, almost reluctantly, Tucker's mouth twitches. “You fucking asshole,” he replies. “Just for that, I’m gonna make _you_ sleep in the wet spot next time.”

“You're getting ahead of yourself,” Wash says dryly.

“Yeah, I'll get a _head_ alright!” Tucker proclaims. “I'll get a head all night long! Bow chika bow wow!”

Washington facepalms.

Then Junior, who had remained silent up till now, chooses to remind everyone of his presence in the most awkward and uncomfortable way possible. “Are you guys gonna have a water fight!?” he asks in excitement.

“Uhh?” Tucker says.

“‘...you said you'd make Wash sleep in the wet spot!” Junior points out. “Does that mean you're gonna have one? Can I—”

“No!” Wash and Tucker shout as one. They cringe as one, too, and turn to look at each other when Junior stops to sulk, panicking as they try to figure out a way out of this. Finally, Tucker touches on one explanation.

“I just meant I was gonna get him back for splashing me today,”  he says, which has the added benefit of distracting Junior, whose expression takes on a mixture of guilty and smug. “You know, by splashing all over the place too.”

Wash groans. “ _Tucker!_ ”

Tucker grins unrepentantly.

“Ohh,” Junior says. He still looks a little disappointed, but slightly less so, and he doesn't frown at all when Washington quickly changes the subject to the topic it _should_ be on in the first place.

“So, are you ready to talk?” Wash asks him.

“You sound like you're trying to interrogate him.”

Washington rolls his eyes. “Are you ready to try talking to the ghost?” he amends, not even bothering to send Tucker a dirty look.

Junior hesitates for a good long while, and Tucker turns serious, coming off the bed to stand in front of him. “Hey, its cool,” he says soothingly. “Nothing's gonna fuck with you while we’re here.”

“And you can always change your mind,” Wash adds.

“No!” Junior rushes to say. He calms, then fidgets with his fingers, rubbing them against each other over and over again. “Um, I...I want to!”

Wash nods. “Alright, then. Let's get started.”

They let Junior decide how it's going to go. He seems to have given it only a modicum of thought, while making ninety percent of it up on the spot. The rest seems cobbled together from movies and books. There are candles (because of course there are), holy water and salt for safety, a book of fairy tales (Washington has no idea why), and a hastily drawn spirit board scribbled on notebook paper, though there's no way to attempt to use it without a planchette.

Tucker sees the same problem, though he thinks of a _unique_ solution. “Maybe we should just download a ouija board app.”

Junior frowns. “Ghosts can't use phones!”

“...yeah, that's true,” Tucker admits.

Wash cuts himself off before he can bring up the girl from _The Ring_ , because it's already 3:28 and he’d like to get to bed eventually, not start a discussion about whether or not ghosts can use technology. “How about we move on?” he suggests instead.

So they do.

They settle on the floor in front of the closet, sitting together in a circle—

          “It's more like a triangle,” Tucker notes.

          Wash sends him a warning look.

—while leaving an empty space for the ghost to “sit,” working under Junior’s thoughtful assumption that it would be rude otherwise. Tucker and Washington sit across from each other while Junior sits across from the closed closet door; they're closer to it, providing a feeling of safety, while also anchoring him on either side.

Junior looks as confident as he can under the circumstances.

“Just try talking to it,” Wash suggests.

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “Like, it hasn't tried to hurt us yet, right?”

“Or at _all_ ,” Wash points out, which is when it hits them. The realization comes all at once, smacking them in the face with the force of a two by four, and he has to fight the urge to bang his head against something.

It's okay, though, because Tucker does it in his place. “Ugh, seriously?” he mutters as he leans over just enough to thump his temple against a wall. “How did it not occur to us to point that out before?”

Washington swipes his palm over his face. “I have no idea.”

Junior doesn't seem to care either way, because his only reaction is to brighten instantly, all his nervousness leaving him at once. “Ohhh!” he says, drawing out the word like a prayer. “So maybe she's not a _bad_ ghost!”

“Right,” Tucker agrees. He lifts his head, then his whole body back up until he's sitting straight again. “Which means she’ll be cool with you talking to her.”

“Really?” Junior asks.

“Really,” Tucker tells him.

And so, with renewed determination, Junior looks to the closet door and finally prepares to speak. His words, surprisingly, come out clear and resounding, neither faltering nor stammering nor fumbling even once, which gives them a strength that makes Junior seem far older than his seven years.

“I'm sorry you're dead,” he begins solemnly, if with a bit too much frankness. “And I know you didn't mean to set the fire and make everyone move. It was just an accident.” He glances at his dad, then back at the closet door. “So even though I miss my old stuff, I still forgive you.”

Junior glances at his father, who doesn't seem to understand at first that he's supposed to agree. “Oh...uh, yeah, me too!” Tucker says at last. “And all that other stuff too. Shit, I fall asleep while doing other stuff all the time. I mean, not the _important_ stuff, but—”

Junior crinkles up his nose. “Daaad.”

“They get the point,” Washington explains.

“Oh! Okay, then back to your thing.”

Junior shakes his head. He pauses a second, frowning as he gets his bearings, then continues talking to the empty air. “I dunno. Maybe you're mad ‘cause you're dead and we’re not, and that's why you keep haunting us—”

Wash frowns at the disturbing implications in that thought.

“But, um. I bet your family misses you. So maybe you should haunt them instead, ‘cause they'll be _really_ happy to see you again now that you're a ghost!”

Tucker lifts a finger, then thinks better of it and slowly puts it down.

“And you can watch tv with them and stuff,” Junior finishes up. “Like you're not really dead. But only if you're nice, because no one likes to hang out with mean people.” Junior pauses again, then adds. “So, um, _please be nice_!”

“I'm sure she will be,” Washington reassures him quickly, with Tucker only half a beat behind.

Junior nods, then comes up on his knees and inches forward until he's kneeling between the two of them instead of off to the side, all the while gazing up beseechingly, as if able to convince the imaginary ghost solely with the power of his eyes.

“Uncle Wash has a lot of books,” Junior says unexpectedly, causing Washington’s gaze to snap up again from where it had briefly lowered to the floor. “And, um, dad talked to me about some? Because he thought I was sad. And...and they said sometimes people get sad or angry after bad things happen.”

Washington swallows hard.

“But that's okay!” Junior says, earnestly shining through in every word. “Because it's normal. But sometimes it helps to talk about it with somebody. Like your dad. Or a doctor. Or your friends.”

Wash meets Tucker's gaze in the mix of light coming from the room. The brown eyes, usually filled with laughter, are surprisingly serious, though the flame from the nearest candle gives them a warmth that's comforting. A glow settles in Washington’s stomach equal to the one filling up the room.

He smiles, and Tucker smiles back.

“So, um,” Junior finishes up, “if your family doesn't want to talk to you. Um. Maybe you can come back and talk to me?”

And at the words, something wonderful happens: the guest room, dark from the lack of daylight, seems to get lighter all at once. It's like the moon passes from behind a cloud, shining through the curtains at the exact right time to make the room brighter and more magical. It's a coincidence, yes, but it's a perfect one nonetheless, and Junior’s face immediately takes on a look of awe.

“It worked!” Junior breathes.

“Ho-ly shit,” Tucker says, expression stunned.

They look at each other with wide eyes for a long moment, until, all in a rush, Junior scrambles up with Tucker following at a far more sedate pace. Junior reaches the doorknob first, but Tucker helps him pull it open, and they stare inside it together as Washington slowly climbs to his feet.

“I think she's gone,” Junior whispers.

“Then you did the right thing,” Washington tells him as he comes up to them from behind. He keeps his voice low and soft, mimicking Junior because he feels like breaking the hushed quality of the room would destroy everything they've worked for. “I think you helped her move on.”

“Really?” Junior asks hopefully.

“Really,” Wash replies.

“Oh,” Junior says, and then he thinks on that for a while, as a mix of emotions flit over his face, telling the story of his in return thoughts. There's relief, of course, and so much of it, and satisfaction, and doubt, and even a hint of fear. But overwhelmingly, there's just _happiness._ Happiness that this supposed ghost who had been terrifying him had just received a semblance of peace.

In that moment, Washington can understand Tucker’s endless pride and unceasing amazement in so much of what Junior does, because he feels it for himself, understands it in every pore and in the very marrow of his bones.

He thinks this must be what being a parent feels like.

Tucker rocks back on the heels of his feet, looking so incredibly proud himself. “So,” he says as he looks down at Junior, “do you think you can sleep in here from now on without being afraid?”

Junior considers it. “Yeah! I think so!”

“And if you can’t,” Washington cuts in, “we’ll keep working at it until you can.”

Because they’re a family. And that’s what family does.

They all have to remember that.

* * *

 

The weather changes as months go by.

Tucker and Junior wind up staying a month longer than they originally planned. None of them mind by that point, however, and in fact, it’s almost more upsetting when it comes time to leave, all of them so settled in the apartment that it kind of feels like the end of an era.

But they remind themselves that they’ll have more space, more privacy and room to breathe. More loneliness too, at least for Wash, but Tucker’s only three blocks away, and they promise each other they’ll come over for dinner at least three times a week until they get used to being apart again.

Washington has a cold the day they move into the new place.

“Dude, what have I told you about trying to lift heavy things when you’re wheezing?” Tucker says irritably. He snatches the bag away from Wash and shoves it onto a nearby counter. “You’re gonna kill yourself with that shit.”

“It’s kitchenware,” Wash points out. The delivery people from the furniture store are doing the hard work. All Wash is trying to do is help out with the smaller  stuff Tucker’s been storing in the apartment, none of which are particularly heavy. “Even Junior can carry it.”

As if to prove his point, Junior walks by at that exact moment, carrying two bags of his own, filled with much of the same stuff Washington’s has.

Tucker scowls. “Shut up and sit down.”

With a sigh, Washington does just that, and is forced to deal with Tucker getting in his space, grabbing his face (albeit gently) in order to study it for sign of illness.

“Meh, you’re fine,” Tucker mutters after a few seconds. But he doesn’t let go, and his thumbs smooth over Wash’s cheeks soothingly, his cold hands a refreshing coolness against the slight burn of his fever. Washington leans into them with a hum.

Washington’s eyes close of their own volition, blocking out the light and making every other sense seem stronger. Even smell, which has been muted for the last week, suddenly seems a tiny bit stronger, and he breathes in and out again and again, taking in the smaller details with a thirst he hasn’t had for days.

“....Wash? Wash?” he hears, jolting him awake. His eyes are heavier than they should be and he struggles to open them. “Hey, Wash. Don’t go to sleep on me.”

“I’m not,” Wash says fuzzily.

“Yeah, right, sure you’re not,” Tucker replies, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He sighs, then ducks down to wrap one of Wash’s arms around his shoulder and _heaves_ them both up. “C’mon, help me out here. You’re way too fucking heavy for me to do most of the work.”

Wash does as he’s told. “Where are we going?”  

“My room,” Tucker says.

“I don’t think I’m up for—”

“Not what I meant, but okay,” Tucker says. He leads Wash through the apartment, weaving in-between boxes and people, until they reach a medium sized room at the end of the hallway. It’s newly painted and somehow already looks lived in, what with the jacket tossed on a nearby chair and personal belongings spread all around.

This was the second room they fixed up. The first, of course, being Junior’s.

Washington gets pushed onto the bed and manhandled until he’s tucked underneath the covers, cocooned in tight like a caterpillar preparing to become a butterfly. It’s a bit much, but Tucker looks satisfied, so Wash goes along with it just once.

Junior pokes his head in a second later. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “But I’m thinking about stapling him in so he can’t move. What do you think? Too far?”

Junior thinks about it. “ _Nah_.”

“Traitor,” Washington says between sudden coughing fits.

Junior just grins and ducks out again, waving briefly before he goes.

Thankfully, Tucker waits until Washington is done hacking up a lung before trying to come closer, or Wash might have been attempted to “accidentally” headbutt him in the side while trying to prevent himself from coughing too hard.

“You know,” Tucker says as he settles down on the bed next to him, unrepentant smile flashing in response to Wash’s glare, “this isn’t exactly how I thought we’d get to christen my bed in the new apartment.”

“We’ve still got time,” Wash wheezes.

Tucker scoffs. “I thought you weren’t up for it.”

“My hand works just fine.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna bang you while you’re barely able to breathe, dude. I don’t care what you think I’m into.”

“But—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Tucker groans. “Look, we banged three days ago, okay? That’s good enough for me.”

Washington goes quiet.

Tucker begins to run his fingers through Wash’s hair, brushing through the strands over and over until the tiny fever headache begins to fade away at the touch. After a few seconds, Wash speaks up again.

“We could always wait until Junior has a sleepover and christen everywhere else in the apartment.”

The beam on Tucker’s face makes the cold seem worth it. It lights up his whole face, brightening everything about him, making him look young again, and delighted and carefree. It’s beautiful, and it reminds Washington of the one thing he’s been meaning to say forever.

“Tucker,” he begins slowly, feeling full to bursting with love himself, though that might be the fever talking, “have I ever told you how much I like your smile?”

Tucker’s smile doesn’t fade. It doesn’t lessen, not even a little. If anything, it gets bigger. Happier. More fond. But because he’s Tucker, he just wiggles his eyebrows and says, “Have I ever told you how much I like your ass?”

And Washington understands him anyway.

Turns out he’s capable of learning things after all.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to give much thanks to my partner in this big bang, [ powerfulpomegranate](%E2%80%9Dpowerfulpomegranate.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D), who is responsible for the gorgeous art you see inside. As you can see, her work is absolutely stunning, and I am in love with both her attention to detail and the awesome lighting, as well as the looks on their faces. You should check out her tumblr if you want to see more of her work.
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to say thanks to the people who helped me out while I was panicking with this fic. Namely, [eclaire-de-lune](%E2%80%9Declaire-de-lune.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) for helping me beta this monster when I was worrying about whether or not it was any good, Pilot, who listened to me and provided emotional support when I was freaking out, and Keefa, one of my dearest friends and quite possibly the best cheerleader and advice-giver anyone could ask for, who helped me get back on the horse when I was afraid that I sucked at writing after going so long without practicing it. They're all amazing and this truly wouldn't have been completed without them.
> 
> In addition, I'd like to say one more thing, which is that this fic was a little bit inspired by [Put My Guns In The Ground"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6734932/chapters/15393220) by [saltsandford.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford) I had to take a break from it while writing the Big Bang, but while I was reading it, I was immediately drawn to the fantastic story she was telling about trauma and the way people coped (or didn't cope) with it. I kind of wanted to do my own take on it in a very different environment, dealing with how mental illness can shape a person's identity and become just another boring, frustrating, and even at times humorous part of their day to day life, all in the confines of a world that is very much like our own. 
> 
> In the end, it turned into a different kind of story: one that exists purely to touch on all the frustrating bits that come with being mentally ill. All the techniques everyone insists you try, the dark humor that often develops because of it, the way sometimes, the best way to help someone is simply by listening to them and asking what they need. And I think, for all its changes, it's a better fic for it, though I can only hope that my story held a tenth of the heart and soul that Salt's did. Truly, PMGITG is a wonderful fic and everyone should be reading it.
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to say that this fic was not meant to insult all self-help books, nor to say that therapy isn't needed, or that the tools of therapy that are mentioned throughout are bullshit, because none of that is true. They are all incredibly useful and damn well life changing for the many people they help every day, including myself. But as with everything, their usefulness varies from person to person, and there will always be some people who do not have access to those resources. Sometimes, you sometimes have to try a few things to see what works for you. So, to anyone who is working through such things, I wish you luck, one mentally ill person to another.


End file.
